


The First Summer of the Stans

by Metaphoricaltigers



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Relativity Falls, Autistic Ford Pines, Family Fluff, Filbrick Pines Is A Jerk, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Light Angst, Neurodivergent Stan Twins, Stan Pines Has Low Self-Esteem, Stan Pines has ADHD, Stangst, Trans Ford Pines, Trans Stan Pines, Young Stan Twins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-08-24 07:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16635911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metaphoricaltigers/pseuds/Metaphoricaltigers
Summary: When the young Pines twins are sent to spend the summer with their Grauntie Mabel in Gravity Falls, they jump at the chance to live somewhere where nobody knows their names. But what's the deal with their mysterious Grunkle Mason? Does Grauntie Mabel know more than she lets on? And most importantly: why is the TV in Gravity Falls so bad??





	1. The Summer Begins

**Author's Note:**

> My take on Relativity Falls with trans Stan twins. Slice of life with supernatural elements, basically.
> 
> Rated Teen and Up only for swearing and some kinda upsetting themes (ie Filbrick being a jerk).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As weird as they are, one thing's for sure: Stan and Ford are gonna fit right in in Gravity Falls.

What the Pines twins were expecting the summer they turned 10 and were sent to spend 3 months with their mysterious relatives on the other side of the country: pine trees, maybe a mountain or two, lumberjacks, and something about living in a museum. What they were not expecting was to be swept up in the tornado of their Great-Aunt Mabel.

“You’re not Great-Uncle Mason,” said one of the twins, as the pair of them stumbled out of the bus. They took in the sight of the older woman in a large pink sweater who was beaming and waving at them. Both kids were disheveled and disoriented, rubbing their eyes and looking around in confusion at the small bus stop and surrounding forested area, which was their first glimpse of Gravity Falls, Oregon. They had red marks on their faces from falling asleep on the window and each other, although they had had the bus to themselves for the whole trip and could easily have spread out more.

“Oh, he's away on a work trip right now. Your Grunkle Mason is so busy this summer, we decided that I was gonna be the one to keep an eye on you,” the woman said cheerfully as she helped the twins gather their belongings from the storage area of the bus where they had spent the last few hours of their long journey. “Also because I’m soooooo good with kids. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get a chance to meet him eventually. Oh my gosh, you guys are _adorable_!” She leaned down to look at them more closely. “Wow, you guys look tired! And sweaty! Oh, remind me of your names again?”

The Pines twins had the same face, fluffy brown hair, and freckles, and there was something uncanny about both of them: if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head a bit, your brain could see them as a pair of awkward tomboys. Tilt your head the other way, and like an optical illusion, they became skinny boys. Their strangeness was amplified by the only physical difference between the two: the one with glasses also had six fingers on each hand.

The two of them looked at each other, silently contemplating the question. The one without glasses seemed to decide faster, turning back to the woman.

“Stanley,” he said, shooting a quick pleading look to his twin. _Don’t blow this for me_.

“Stanford,” said the other, sticking out a six-fingered hand to ward off any potential hugging action. “Uh, greetings.”

“Oh, of course. Stanley and Stanford, I remember now.” She reached out to shake Stanford’s hand. “Greetings to you too! I’m your Great-aunt Mabel, but to save time you can just call me Grauntie Mabel. That’s quite the handshake you’ve got there, sweetie. A full finger friendlier than normal! Wow, I haven’t seen you since you were babies! But those names are way too long. What if I call you Stan and Lee instead?”

“Why does _he_ get to be Stan?” protested Stanley.

“Ooh, we’ve got a fighter, eh?” Grauntie Mabel scratched her chin. “I don’t know, kiddo. Do you have what it takes to bear the full weight of the Stan moniker?” Stanley stood up straighter and puffed up his chest, as if she were legitimately questioning his physical strength.

“He can be Stan,” said Stanford. “I don’t care.”

“Then what’s your name?” said Grauntie Mabel, tapping her lips thoughtfully.

“Ford! Like a car!” shouted Stan, already taking on the role of the mouthpiece for the pair of them, while Stanford was in his usual spot next to and slightly behind him. Their shoulders were touching, each applying slight pressure to the other, reminding each of the other’s presence.

“Like a car, huh? Does that work for you?” Grauntie Mabel looked at Ford, who nodded. “Great! Now I bet you guys can’t wait to see your room. And I can’t wait for you two to take a shower! Just kidding! You do stink, though.” She hefted their bags into the trunk of her car with surprising strength, and the pair of brothers got into the back seat together.

“Psst.” Stan leaned across the seat to whisper in Ford’s ear. “She’s weird.”

“I like her,” Ford whispered back.

“Of course you like her. You like weird stuff.”

“Yeah, I like you, don’t I?”

Stan playfully shoved his brother’s arm, and the two of them giggled. They both felt lighter than they had in a long time, smiles tugging at the corners of their mouths like they were being pulled by invisible strings. Their summer was looking brighter by the minute.

 

The rest of the day consisted of a tour of the log cabin-slash-tourist trap in the woods, which turned out to be a museum of props, sets, and other things that had been involved in the making of cheesy horror and science fiction movies. Apparently Grunkle Mason’s movies had been cult classics back in the day.

The twins were introduced to a frankly overwhelming stream of faces and names, although the most prominent ones were Dan, a quiet teenage boy who worked the cash register at the gift shop, and Candy and Grenda, a pair of eccentric older women who ran the exhibits and maintenance department. Finally they were given some time to themselves to get settled in their attic bedroom.

 

“So,” said Ford, unpacking his sparse wardrobe of hand-me-down t-shirts and chinos. “I take it we’re boys here in Gravity Falls. I had not been informed of this fact.”

“Oh. Heh, yeah,” said Stan, who was hanging up a poster from their old room in New Jersey. He sighed. “I had to do it, Sixer. It was the perfect opportunity. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” said Ford, as he started folding his clothes. “But remember how we thought starting first grade was the ‘perfect opportunity’, and we had to have a 'special meeting' with the school principal? Or how we tried it on the new kid in our neighborhood, and Crampelter told on us, and everyone found out and threw dirt clods at us, and then Ma and Pa found out and we were grounded for a week for lying to people?” Stan winced and sat down on his bed, fiddling with the corner of his blanket.

“I know. I’m sorry. This was probably a bad idea.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m just saying, we need to be careful.” Ford opened the dresser drawer and started putting his clothes away. “We can’t keep pretending to be boys forever. We just turned 10. We have to grow up someday.”

“I know,” said Stan, folding in on himself further. “I guess that’s why I wanted to do this in the first place. It kinda feels like our last chance.” He chewed his lip for a moment, deep in thought. “Do you…. do you think Grauntie Mabel knows? That we’re really girls?”

“She can’t know, can she? Otherwise, why would she be calling us Stan and Ford?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Stan said quietly. “To be nice, maybe? Like how she gave me that box of art supplies. And gave you those magazines about science stuff.”

“That’s different, though. You give people stuff to be nice. You don’t call them by the wrong names to be nice, or pretend that they’re boys when they’re actually girls.”

“Oh, okay.” Stan nibbled on his fingernail for a moment. “What if she finds out?”

Ford looked over at his brother. He usually wasn’t great at reading body language, but Stan was hunched over in a position that screamed misery. Seeing his normally cheerful brother looking so sad made Ford’s chest hurt a little bit, and he felt like he would do whatever he could to make that feeling go away. He crossed the room to his brother’s bed, curling up next to him with his head resting on his shoulder.

“She’s not gonna find out.”

“You promise?”

“Yeah.”

“Stanford?”

“Yeah?”

“High six?”

“High six.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/32045534018/in/dateposted-public/)

 

“Can you _believe_ how bad the TV is here?” Stan tossed the remote onto the dinosaur skull-shaped end table and flopped his skinny body onto the couch dramatically. As if on cue, Grauntie Mabel’s enormous pet pig waddled into the room and began licking the boy’s face. “Eugh! Quit it, Waddles!”

“You shouldn’t be watching so much TV anyway. Read a book for once,” Ford spoke up from the other end of the couch, where he was curled up with his feet on the cushion, glasses perched on the end of his nose as he read. After a few days of thorough exploration of the museum and surrounding area, the twins had run out of things to do and were starting to get on each other’s nerves.

“What, and risk becoming a nerd like you? You wish!”

“Do I detect the sound of adorable sibling bickering?” Grauntie Mabel breezed into the room through the gift shop door. “You know you’re always welcome to do that in front of our guests! I can put you behind glass and charge them 50 cents a peek!”

Grauntie Mabel seemed to be the main face of the museum: she gave tours to the groups of confused travelers (who were usually just stopping by to ask for directions), older film buffs, and young goths who made up the majority of the museum’s visitors. In fact, although Grunkle Mason was theoretically back from his trip, they had encountered him only once. He had been eating a bowl of cereal and drinking black coffee in the kitchen when the twins came down for breakfast, and had finished up and left shortly afterward, apparently sharing the same awkwardness around strangers that the twins had, and which seemed to be entirely absent in his twin sister.

Mabel was actually fortunate enough to be the only adult the twins had warmed up to right away. While they tiptoed around the visitors and other staff of the museum, Mabel’s entire lack of self-consciousness seemed to rub off a little bit on everyone she met, Stan and Ford included. Ford was even pretty sure he had witnessed her become pen pals with a telemarketer who had called the museum to ask about their credit score.

“Actually,” Ford piped up upon seeing Mabel enter the room, “Did you know that Oregon is a hotbed of paranormal activity?” He held up the book he was reading, _Cryptozoology Across America._ “There are over 300 confirmed monster sightings in this county alone. I could help you find some _real_ exhibits. Not this fake crap.”

“Hey!” Mabel and Stan objected in unison.

“Don’t listen to that nerd, Grauntie Mabel! I like all this fake crap. He’s just grumpy because he doesn’t think he could come up with anything better.” Stan turned and stuck his tongue out at his brother.

“I don’t _need_ to come up with anything better. Look at this!” Ford held open the book he was holding and pointed at one of the pages. “Sha-bam!”

“Haunted chicken cart?” Stan leaned forward and squinted. “What am I looking at here, Sixer?”

“What? No, no, that’s obviously fake. I meant this! Sha-bam!” Ford pointed to the picture on the opposite page, depicting an old-fashioned woodcut of a large, bear-like creature.

“What is that, a gumberoo? Who came up with that name? It just looks like a fat bear. Wearing… are those boots?”

“Hey, it isn’t just any old fat bear. It’s way bigger, and super dangerous! Its hide is so strong, anything you shoot at it will shoot back at you and kill you. But it also hibernates for 11 months out of the year, and it’s vulnerable to fire! I say we find its hiding spot, use fire to scare it into submission, and lock it up into a big cage. Imagine what those tourists will think when they see it!”

“Well, I still think it’s just a bear that scared some dumb lumberjacks, but I’m sold,” Stan said, shrugging his shoulders. “Grauntie Mabel, can we go out into the woods to hunt down a dangerous cryptid? Pleeeeeease? If you say no, we’ll just sneak out anyway.”

“Dangerous cryptid? Oh, you goofs, if I had known you were so bored, I would have given you something to do a long time ago. Dan, sweetie, could you come here?” she called through the gift shop door. A moment later, the stocky red-haired boy emerged.

“Dan, you remember my nephews Stan and Ford, don’t you?” The young man nodded solemnly. “Well, they’re starting to develop some good old-fashioned cabin fever. Do you mind showing them how we keep things running around here? I think they’d be great in the exhibits department! What do you say?”

The teenager shrugged his shoulders, scratching his head under the fluffy Russian-style hat he was wearing. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Great! It’s settled then. C’mon, Waddles. You boys have fun!” The woman and her pig disappeared back through the door, where she could be heard greeting another set of unsuspecting visitors: “Step right up to the Mystery Shack!”

The older boy turned to look at the young twins, who were both slumped over in disappointment at the intervention of this stranger. Dan cleared his throat.

“You’re Ms. Pines’s great-nephews?” The two boys nodded their heads. There was another pause. “I thought she only had the one great-nephew. Sherman. She talks about him all the time. And the girls. What were their names?” He scratched his head again.

“Nope, there’s us too,” Stan shouted before Dan could finish remembering Ms. Pines’s nieces’ names. “Stan and Ford. Shermie’s brothers. I’m Stan, he’s Ford. That’s us. Her nephews.”

“Oh.” The boys once again regarded each other. “Well, I guess Ms. Pines wants to get you started on the exhibits. Come with me.”

Dan abruptly turned and began climbing the stairs to the upper storage area of the museum, with Stan and Ford reluctantly following him.

 

“Do you feel like Grauntie Mabel is…. trying to keep us busy?”

The afternoon sun was just beginning to disappear behind the tops of the tallest pine trees as the pair of boys worked in the backyard.

“What do you mean?” asked Stan, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. He had been the first one to take off his shirt earlier that day, shortly followed by his brother. The two boys were now thoroughly sunburned from the waist up. Stan rubbed the sweat off his forehead with his wrist, accidentally smearing paint into his hair in the process.

For the past week, Stan and Ford had been working nonstop for the exhibits department of the museum: sweeping, dusting, replacing lightbulbs, and their most recent project: painting signs to hang up outside the museum. Stan was looking proudly at his most recent work: a bright blue dinosaur proclaiming the museum to be “ext-ROAR-dinary!”

“I’m just saying that ever since I brought up that cryptid, Grauntie Mabel hasn’t given us any free time. I mean, look at this! Do you really think the museum needs this many signs?” Ford swept an arm out to demonstrate his point. The yard was littered with wooden signs of all shapes and colors, with arrows pointing in every direction encouraging the reader to “Step Right Up” and “Experience The Wonder” and “Sign A Waiver Upon Entry”.

“Umm. Obviously. I think one of us needs to ‘BEE More Chill,’” said Stan, pointing to a sign with a large cartoon bee on it.

“That doesn’t even make sense! Come on, you have to admit that I have a point.”

“Okay, fine, maybe you’re right. She’s probably trying to stop us from going out looking for cryptids. But can you blame her? I mean, that gumberoo thing seems pretty dangerous, even if it _is_ just a giant bear.”

“Maybe,” said Ford, although he didn’t sound convinced.

“So…. maybe we should leave it alone?”

“Or….?”

“Maybe we should sneak out and try to find a cryptid anyway?”

“Well, if you insist,” said Ford, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited on March 17, 2019 to make it flow together easier. Thanks for reading!


	2. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan finds a candy bar. Also, Ford finds a book.

The Stan twins pulled their shirts on over their painfully sunburned shoulders as they hurried through the empty gift shop. Just as they were running through the “staff only” door that separated the museum from the living area of the house, they were intercepted by a brick wall covered in flannel.

“Whoa, slow down there, little dudes,” said the brick wall, who turned out to be Dan Corduroy. “Where are you going so fast?”

“Nowhere,” said Ford, just as Stan was saying, “Sneaking out to fight a monster.”

Dan rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“A monster, huh? I wonder if it’s the same monster that’s been leaving those big footprints around the perimeter of the Mystery Shack.”

“What’s a perimeter?” asked Stan, at the same time as Ford was saying, “What kind of footprints?”

“Um. The area surrounding the Shack, you know? Like, in a big circle. Big footprints, like an animal’s footprints, but bigger than any animal I’ve ever seen. I tried to tell Ms. Pines about it, but she thought I was joking. I never joke.” The older boy crouched down and asked in a hushed tone,  “Do you guys really think you can catch a monster?”

 

Several minutes later, the three boys were standing outside on the edge of the forest, looking at a line of long-toed footprints larger than a trash can lid.

“So, what’s the verdict, Inspector Stanford?” Stan asked as his brother clicked away with his camera, the book about cryptids sandwiched between his elbow and his ribs. Before heading outside, Ford had run upstairs to grab his “adventure jacket”: the battered leather jacket that he’d been wearing for years, with extra pockets sewn into the lining to hold all of his “mystery equipment.” He had handed his notebook and pencil to Stan, to keep his hands free for photography.

“Okay, write this down: long toes, sharp claws. I’m thinking avian or reptilian in nature, although I’ve never seen something exactly like this. circumference and depth indicates a massive size, maybe up to several tons. 15, maybe 20 feet in height.” Stan dutifully took notes in Ford's field notebook, wrinkling his nose as his pencil slowly formed the blocky letters.

“Have you seen anything like this before?” asked Dan, who was impressed at the younger boys’ apparent grasp on the situation.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting my entire  _ life _ to see something like this,” Ford said excitedly. “Actual physical evidence! Nobody ever listened to us, because we’re kids, but we knew. The Jersey Devil. That ghost in our dad’s store. The giant leech we saw last summer! But with no physical evidence, they were nothing!” Stan and Dan watched silently as Ford paced back and forth along the line of footprints, waving his camera and book in the air in lieu of gesturing with his hands as he spoke faster and faster. 

“This is incredible. A real, actual monster in Gravity Falls. With footprints and everything! I knew we were sent here for a reason. This is it! Our mission! To finally prove that cryptids are real, once and for all!”

“Okay, okay. Calm down, bud,” said Dan as the younger boy started hyperventilating. “Uh, maybe you should sit down.”

“Okay! Okay. Sorry, I’m just a little…” Ford bent over and steadied himself against the trunk of a tree, breathing heavily. “I should probably sit down.” He slumped down in the dirt with his head between his knees. Dan glanced at Stan, looking alarmed.

“He gets like this sometimes,” Stan explained.

 

“So, what’s the plan, then?” Dan turned to Ford, who was sitting next to Stan on the couch in the living room and sipping from a glass of water. Although he seemed to have calmed down somewhat, he was still perched on the edge of his seat, and the water glass was tightly clutched in his six-fingered hands. Dan could practically hear the nervous energy humming under the little dude’s skin.

“Well.” Ford put his water glass on the T-Rex skull and began pacing back and forth again, counting off ideas on his many fingers. “First off, we should stop by the general store to look for monster-hunting supplies and weapons. We’ll need flashlights, extra batteries, matches, camping supplies, emergency provisions…” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, settle down there, little man. I can’t let you dudes just go out into the woods for days at a time. I’m gonna have a hard enough time covering for you as it is. Anyway, I’m sure you can find a lot of that stuff around here.” Dan gestured around the small living room, as if it were an expansive laboratory rather than a stuffy den that smelled like potpourri.

“Here?” Stan asked doubtfully, lifting a lace doily off the arm of the couch as if there could be a secret trap-door underneath it.

“Well, not  _ here _ -here. But there’s a lot of supplies and things down in the basement. Ms. Pines used to be a pretty big adventurer herself, you know.”

“She did?” Ford stopped in his tracks, and his twin also froze in surprise. Dan found himself being stared at by two sets of matching saucer-shaped eyes.

“Well, yeah. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

 

The main area of the basement was cluttered with old movie memorabilia and costumes, broken museum exhibits, and cardboard boxes filled with a jumble of objects that might be found in Indiana Jones’s office. Most of it was covered in a fine layer of dust.

“Isn’t this where Grunkle Mason lives?” Stan whispered. The basement was the one area the twins had avoided, specifically because they didn’t want to risk angering their mysterious older relative.

“Mr. Pines? I’ve never seen him down here.” Dan crouched down again, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, “I actually think he has an entire secret wing in this house. I’ve been working here for years, but I’ve never been able to find any hidden doors or anything.” Since he had started talking, Dan had been revealing himself to be more and more of a conspiracy theorist. “Anyway, I’m pretty much the only one who goes down here anymore, so you two can go nuts.”

Stan and Ford grinned at each other, and immediately got to work unpacking boxes and discovering what was inside. There was a lot of junk, but Ford managed to put together a pretty good pile of useful adventuring supplies: rope, a lighter, a pair of working flashlights, and even a grappling hook. Ford tested out this last one: although it was decorated with rainbow and heart-shaped stickers, it was in good condition and worked perfectly.

“Find anything over there, Stan?” he called to his brother.

“Did I ever!” Stan’s voice emerged from behind a wall of boxes in the corner. “Say hello to my new associate…. Shanklin the Stab-Possum!” An opossum ran out from behind the boxes, a knife tied to its back with a piece of string and Stan following right behind.

“Stab those mysteries, Shanklin!” Stan pointed to a target for a darts game that was leaning against the opposite wall. The rat-like creature hissed and ran straight toward it, embedding the tip of the knife deep into the center of the target.

“Wow, perfect aim,” said Ford. “That’s…. actually quite impressive.”

“Yeah, he’s a smart little guy! Aren’t you, Shanklin?” Stan picked up the opossum, who immediately jumped onto Stan’s shoulder, licking his face with his small tongue. “Aw, he likes me! Whoa, you’ve got a pretty good haul there, Sixer.”

“Yeah, I have pretty much everything we need here. And then some,” Ford said, holding up the grappling hook to demonstrate his point. “We already have backpacks and water bottles upstairs, and I wouldn’t trust any food that we find down here.” 

“Uh, yeah, definitely,” said Stan through a mouthful of ancient chocolate, shoving the rest of the candy bar into his pocket for later. 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/32362312878/in/dateposted-public/)

“Are we done here then?” asked Dan, who had been sitting in a dusty armchair and flipping through a Shmad Magazine. “Ms. Pines is probably gonna start wondering where you are soon.”

“Yep,” Stan said cheerfully. He looked at the boxes that had completely surrounded him on all sides. “Hmm.” He tried to push one of the boxes out of the way, but it upset a whole stack of them and created a miniature avalanche.

“I’ve got you.” Dan grabbed the ten-year-old under the armpits and lifted him and the opossum to safety. Then he turned back to Ford. “You need some help there, bud?”

Stan’s avalanche had uncovered a whole new stash of supplies, and Ford was standing in the middle of a mountain of board games, apple corers, and packing tape. He was holding an old leather book in his hand, which he had opened up to somewhere in the middle.

“You coming, little dude?” Dan and Stan stopped on the basement stairs and looked back as Ford remained rooted to the spot, staring at the book he had just found.

“Uh, guys?” Ford held up the book, which was open to a hand-written two-page spread with the title “Dinosaur Cavern.” He pointed to a drawing of a footprint, right next to a labeled sketch of a T-Rex embedded in tree sap. “Does this look familiar to you?”

 

“It looks like the sap was stable for millions of years, keeping the dinosaurs imprisoned in that cave. But global warming has been gradually melting it, leading to the dinosaurs’ escape. Who knows how many might be out there in the forest right now!”

The boys had hurried through their dinner before retreating to “Fort Stan,” the blanket fort they had set up on the unused side of their bedroom. They had snuck their supplies into the fort ahead of time, and had firmly informed Grauntie Mabel that they were only to be interrupted for the most extreme of emergencies.

“Cool,” said Stan, not looking up from his paper. His tongue poked out of his mouth in concentration as he attempted to color in the lines of a drawing of Ford and himself riding on a  T-Rex, possum and grappling hook raised triumphantly in the air. Shanklin was watching Stan’s progress from his shoulder, which had become his new favorite perch.

“Stan-ley! This is serious! We need to prepare for this. It’s an extremely dangerous mission. Have you just been drawing this whole time?” Ford craned his neck to see what Stan was working on. Stan blushed and covered the picture with his body.

“Hey! I haven’t ‘just’ been drawing! Look at what I made.” Stan flipped over his picture and held up a different piece of paper, which was blank except for a small drawing of the Mystery Shack and some of the surrounding trees in the center, with a long road leading to the lower left of the page, with an arrow pointing the way “to town.”

“What is it?” asked Ford, taking the paper in his hands and looking skeptically at it.

“It’s a map!”

“A map? There’s nothing on it, you goof! Where’s the rest of it?” Ford pointed at the expansive white space. “The Mystery Shack isn’t just inside a cloud!”

“You’re the goof, Poindexter! It’s a map of  _ where we’ve been _ . Then when we explore more areas, we draw them in.  _ Duh. _ ”

“Wow. Stan, that’s actually a really smart idea.” Ford handed the map back to his brother, who was now grinning with pride.

“That’s because I’m really the smart twin.” Stan quickly snatched Ford’s glasses and placed them on his own face. He sat up straight and waved his finger in the air pompously. “Look at me, I’m so important, I need to actually see. Science! Uh…. math! Wow, Stanford, do things usually have outlines?” Stan held a hand in front of his face and wiggled his fingers experimentally.

“Hey, wear your own glasses if you like seeing so much!” Ford took his glasses back and placed them carefully onto his own face. 

“Ahh, people would just mistake me for a smart person and start askin’ me questions.” Stan crossed his arms and frowned. Ford felt like he had touched a nerve somehow, but he didn’t know how or what to do about it. Shanklin, however, took it upon himself to start licking and sniffing in Stan’s ear, and soon Stan was laughing again as he pushed the opossum away. Ford was relieved and impressed by the marsupial’s superior social skills.

After finishing his drawing, Stan slowly made his way to bed. Ford continued to read his book late into the night, his heart pounding, his eyes rapidly scanning the pages. By the time Stan fell asleep, the soft glow of light was still emanating from the opposite end of the attic.

 

“Stanley! Stan, wake up.” 

Stan groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. 

“Go away, Ford. It’s summer vacation. We’re supposed to sleep in.”

“Monster hunting, Stanley!”

“Ughhh.” Stan peeked out from under his pillow to glare at his brother, who already had his backpack and adventuring jacket on. “What time is it?”

Ford checked his watch. “Ooh. If I tell you, do you promise not to yell at me?”

“NO.” Stan rolled back over and prepared to go back to sleep. “You’re still standing there, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, FINE.” Stan pushed back the covers and grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor. “Did you even go to bed last night?”

“Nah.” Ford rubbed his chin. “I think I did fall asleep though. I might have drooled on some of your pictures. Sorry.”

“Gross.” Stan reached into his pocket and pulled out a half-eaten chocolate bar. “Oh sweet, forgot I had this.” He shoved the dusty candy into his mouth. “So, no Mabel-cakes this morning? What are we doing for breakfast?”

“Yeah, I figured we should hit the road before Grauntie Mabel wakes up. Then Dan can just say we got up early to work on something for him. We’ll just have to make cereal this morning.”

The pair of them were startled to find Grunkle Mason in the kitchen, sipping coffee and scribbling on a notepad at the table. He looked equally surprised to see them, and watched them quietly as they prepared their cereal and sat down. Finally he cleared his throat.

“So, I wasn’t expecting to see you two down here at 5 in the morning. And, uh…” he looked at the opossum on Stan’s shoulder for a moment. “I see you brought a friend with you.” 

“That’s just Shanklin,” said Stan. The older man raised his eyebrows as if he expected further explanation, but Stan just continued to sleepily eat his cereal. Grunkle Mason nodded and took another sip of coffee. He was wearing a red flannel shirt and a baseball cap, and looked pretty much like the standard Oregon lumberjack, except for the dark circles under his eyes and the excessive amount of stuff bursting from the pockets of his puffy vest.

“Well, how are you two liking Gravity Falls so far?” Grunkle Mason asked after a minute or so of silence. Stan and Ford glanced at each other. It was the dreaded “adult small talk.” This man clearly hadn’t spent much time around children, and was resorting to asking them questions that put the burden on them to make the conversation interesting.

“The TV sucks,” offered Stan. “It looks like it was all filmed in some guy’s basement.”

Grunkle Mason grinned. “Well, everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

Ford whispered something in Stan’s ear.

“Oh shi-crap,” said Stan. “Sorry, Mister. I forgot that you used to make bad movies. Ow! Stop it, Ford!” He shoved his brother, who had been kicking him under the table.

Grunkle Mason just laughed. “Hey, it pays the bills, doesn’t it?” He gestured at the mostly-serviceable kitchen around them, and the generic-brand cereal and coffee on the table.

“I’ll say. Our dad would charge 5 bucks for a stick of gum, but this place is a palace compared to our house. One time Ford found a worm in his cereal, and our dad just told him to throw the worm away and eat the rest.”

“Hmm.” Grunkle Mason cleared his throat and picked up his notebook, gulping down his remaining coffee. “Well, great talk, guys, but I should really get back to work. See you later.” He waved as he beat a hasty retreat.

“Hey, isn’t that guy pretty much retired?” Stan mused. “What kind of work could he be doing?” 

“Stan!” Ford hissed, blushing. “Why did you have to tell him the worm story?”

“What’s wrong with the worm story? I was just trying to make conversation. It’s not like you were helping.”

“It’s not… appropriate! Now Grunkle Mason is gonna think we’re poor.”

“We  _ are _ poor! Also, why do you care what Grunkle Mason thinks? We never see him anyway.”

Ford didn’t answer, but he was rubbing his hands together anxiously. There was something he didn’t like about Grunkle Mason having the picture in his mind of Ford fishing into his bowl of cereal and pulling out the wriggling creature. Ford eating milk and cereal that had been touching a worm. How they had continued to eat from that box of cereal until it ran out, because it really was perfectly fine. Nobody got sick from it. Nobody died.

“Sixer?” Stan placed a hand over his brother’s, stopping him from fidgeting. “Listen. I’m sorry I told him about the worm. I won’t do it again. But we’re gonna have fun today, right?” 

Ford nodded. 

“Okay. Now, I didn’t get up at 5 in the morning to sit around in the kitchen, so let’s go find a dinosaur!”

Ford hopped up from his chair, and Stan grabbed his wrist. The two of them grinned as they made their way out into the early morning sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the worm thing based on a true story? Possibly.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's commented/bookmarked/left kudos! I would continue writing this story even if nobody was reading it, but the fact that people are enjoying and connecting with it is just icing on the cake.


	3. Triangulating on the Issue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys explore the woods, make some questionable decisions, and talk about their family's problems a little bit.
> 
> There's some non-graphic discussion of past injuries, but I don't think it's too bad.

“8-Ball to Sixer. Sixer, do you copy? Over.”

“Sixer to 8-Ball. I can hear you because you're 10 feet away from me. However, our radios are too close to each other and are just creating static. Over and out.”

“Hey, I’m just making sure these guys work okay.” Stan clipped the radio back onto his belt. “Don’t want the batteries to poop out on us during a super-dramatic action scene, right?” He looked at Shanklin, who chittered in apparent agreement. They were sitting on the porch steps as Ford triple-checked that they had everything they needed.

“The batteries are brand-new. I checked them already. Also, where does ‘8-Ball’ come from? It sounds like the name of a hired goon” Ford reached into his backpack and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper.

“Maybe I wanna be a hired goon when I grow up,” Stan retorted. “Hey, what did you do to my map?” He moved to peer over Ford’s shoulder. His drawing was now overlaid with a lightly-penciled grid.

“Oh, when you were sleeping last night, I used a compass and ruler to add some lines to indicate direction. Because the town is Southwest of here, I determined which direction was North and laid these placement lines accordingly. That just means that I’ll be able to place landmarks more accurately.” Ford pointed to a circle labeled “water tower”. “I also used the road atlas that Ma gave us to figure out where to put the water tower. When we’re adding more landmarks, we can use the water tower and the mystery shack to triangulate their location. Hey, are you listening? What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” said Stan, covering his mouth to try to stifle his giggles. He pointed at something in the distance. “I just noticed that mountain looks like a butt. Oh, hey, can we put Butt Mountain on the map?”

“Stan- _ley_! Are you gonna take this seriously or not?”

“I _am_ taking it seriously! You wanted to add landmarks, right? Butt Mountain is a landmark!”

Ford stuck out his tongue in response. “Okay, fine.” He fished in his backpack and pulled out a compass and ruler, and grabbed the pencil that he kept over his left ear. Stanley watched as he peered through a hole in his compass, carefully marking down numbers and drawing lines.

“Okay,” said Ford, putting his things away. “Now we just need to take a look at the same mountain from the water tower, and then we can triangulate it.” He grabbed his backpack and shot off down the path in the direction of the distant tower. “Come on!”

“Hey, wait up!” Stan quickly shouldered his own backpack and took off after his brother, Shanklin hissing after him in agitation.

 

“Hey, can I try?” asked Stan, as he watched his brother fiddling with his compass at the base of the water tower.

“Sure. You just look through this little hole in the compass and tell me what number lines up with that pine tree at the top of the mountain.” Ford handed the compass to Stan, who squinted through the hole for a minute, his tongue poking out in concentration.

“Uhhhh….”

“Stan? What number does it line up with?”

“Hang on, hang on!”

“Do you understand how it works?”

“Gimme a minute, Ford!” Stan snapped. “I’m trying to find the tree.”

“Oh.” Ford thought for a minute. “Stan, can you see the tree?”

“Um. No,” Stan admitted, giving the compass back to his brother. Ford peered through the hole and wrote down coordinates on the map as Stan watched over his shoulder.

“All right,” Ford said at last, pointing to the tip of a triangle on the map. “There you go: the location of Butt Mountain.”

“Sweet! Can I draw it in?”

“Sure,” said Ford, handing the pencil to Stan. Stan carefully draw in the shape of a butt, with a little sign saying “Butt Mountain” sticking out of one side.

“There ya go! My masterpiece.”

“I thought the peanut butter-spaghetti-hot dog smoothie you made that one time was your masterpiece,” said Ford.

“Ah yes,” Stan said wistfully. “The perfect recipe for fake barf. Well, I can have two masterpieces.” Shanklin gave him a supportive lick on the cheek.

“You know,” said Ford thoughtfully, “We would really get a better view from up there.”

Stan followed his brother’s gaze to the top of the water tower. “You’re joking, right? That thing’s like a hundred feet high.” He looked back at his brother’s face. “You’re….. you’re not joking.”

“Why not? It’s perfectly safe. See, it’s got a ladder and a handrail and everything. It’s _designed_ to have people climb it!”

“ _That_ rickety thing? Yeah, maybe in dinosaur times, but not now! Besides, we’ll probably get in trouble or something.”

“Well, you can stay here if you want.” Ford grinned as he stuffed the compass into his backpack. “I’ll just have to vandalize this thing by myself.” He walked over to the base of the tower and hoisted himself up onto the creaky wooden ladder.

“Wait, what?” said Stan, watching his brother scurry up the ladder. “Oy vey.” He hesitated for a moment before shoving the map into his own backpack and slinging it onto his back. “Wait for us, you maniac!” he shouted as Shanklin hopped onto his shoulder.

 

“What is that supposed to be?” Ford looked at the shaky outline his brother was spray-painting next to the huge six-fingered hand Ford had drawn onto the water tower.

“It’s my personal symbol,” Stan replied as he steadfastly refused to look down, out, or anywhere beside the surface he was vandalizing. “Brass knuckles, ‘cause I’m so tough.”

 

Back in New Jersey, Stan would put his nose to the glass looking at the brass knuckles in their dad’s pawn shop, earning himself a smack to the back of the head telling him to get back to dusting the shelves. When Shermie took up boxing lessons, Stan fruitlessly begged their dad to let him join too. When he finally realized that it wasn’t going to happen, Stan resigned himself to sneaking into the gym to watch his older brother practice with the other teenage boys after school.

“Hey Pines, your little bro is here!” The first time one of the guys said that, Stan looked worriedly to his older brother, but Shermie just shot him a wink. They never even asked him his name, calling him “Pines Two” instead. Stan almost became a mascot of sorts: too young to be considered a genuine peer, the boys found his tough-guy persona endearing and ended up showing him how to tape up his hands and throw a punch. They were delighted upon realizing that he had a twin, calling Ford “Pines 1.5” when they learned that he had been born 15 minutes earlier.

 

“Brass knuckles? It looks like a hairbrush.”

“Can it, Poindexter!” Stan moved to give his brother a playful shove, but lost his balance upon looking over the side of the tower and ended up white-knuckling the wooden handrail instead. Beside him, Ford had become preoccupied by scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/33011516718/in/dateposted-public/)

“Hey Stanley, I think I found a possible location for the dinosaur cave! Take a look.” Ford handed the binoculars to his brother, who dutifully squinted through them for a minute or two.

“See it?” Ford prompted.

“Uh, yeah.” Stan handed the binoculars back to his twin, who resumed his examination of the distant cave.

“Stanley, why don’t you wear your glasses anymore?” he asked abruptly.

Stan was speechless for a moment before he waved off the question.

“I told you. People would just think I’m smart and get disappointed when they actually talk to me. I don’t need to see that good anyway.”

“ _Stanley._ ” Ford put down the binoculars to glare at his brother. “You can’t lie to me. What’s the real reason?”

“Okay, _fine._ ” Stan let go of the handrail and slumped against the wooden siding of the water tank. “I broke them again, okay? I left them in my backpack and I put stuff on top of them like a dumb idiot and they broke.”

“Okay,” said Ford, sitting down next to Stan. “I don't understand. Why didn't you just tell Ma and get a new pair?”

“Sixer, do you remember the last time I broke my glasses, when I was trying to do a flip on my bike at the boardwalk and I fell and basically smashed my head open?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Ford. “It was the only time we ever got to ride in an ambulance. So what?”

“Yeah, we had to ride in an ambulance because some lady decided to call 911. You don't know how much it costs to ride in an ambulance, do you?”

“No,” said Ford. “Why should I?”

“I know how much it costs. Five hundred and sixty-five dollars and eighty-two cents, after insurance.” Stan leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “Do you know how much it costs to go to the emergency room?”

“No,” said Ford, his brow wrinkling in concern. “How much does it cost?”

“Three hundred and twenty-five dollars. For us, anyway. Pa told me that as soon as he got the bill in the mail. And then there's the cost for the orthodontist because I messed up my permanent teeth so bad I needed braces.”

“But that's not your fault!”

“And then I also needed new glasses because mine got crushed under my bike.”

“So what?” said Ford. “It was an accident, Stan! It's not like you got hurt on purpose.”

“So what?” Stan shot back. “Think about it, Sixer. Remember when I broke my hand punching through the wood of that boarded-up house we found? Or when I fell off that big spinning thing at the park and broke my arm, and had to have surgery and get metal put in it? That costs money too!”

“Well, what are you supposed to do? Just go around with a broken arm?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m _supposed_ to do, Sixer. I’m _supposed_ to not get _hurt_ all the time. I’m supposed to stop costing more money than I’m worth. But I just can’t stop being a screw-up, can I?” Stan sniffed and rubbed his eyes. “One of the first things I really remember after my accident is Pa sitting down next to me and listing off all the stuff he's had to pay for over the years. All the times they had to close the store because they had to talk to the principal about something I did, or pay for extra tutoring because I’m too dumb to just learn things normally. They never even wanted me, Ford. They only wanted one baby and they ended up with two, and all I ever do is ruin things. Stanford, what if he finds out I broke my glasses again? He's gonna kill me.”

“I’m sure he’s not gonna _kill_ you.” Ford scooted closer to his brother. “Anyway, he’s all the way back in New Jersey now. Stan, why didn’t you tell me about all this? I would have… I don’t know… done something.”

“I guess I just wanted to protect you from everything. I know how hard things are for you anyway.”

“What do you mean, hard for me? I know I can kinda be a target sometimes, but it’s not like you have it much better.”

“Well, what could you have done? Pa would have just gotten mad at you too. Nah, you need to keep being Pa’s favorite and stay out of trouble. I can’t just drag you down all the time.”

“Pa’s favorite? I’m not Pa’s favorite. Shermie is Pa’s favorite!”

“Oh yeah, Shermie. Shermie’s everyone’s favorite. Still, though. Sometimes it feels like Pa hates me. Like he’s always comparing me to you and I’m always the worse one.”

“Pa doesn’t hate you.” Ford thought for a minute, his expression growing grim.  “Pa just hasn’t figured out a way to take advantage of you yet.”

“What?” Stan looked up at the sudden flash of anger in Ford’s voice.

“The only reason he can even stand the sight of me is because he thinks I’ll be able to get him rich someday with my math skills. It’s not like he likes me as a _person_ .” Ford stood up again and started pacing back and forth in agitation. “I know he just wishes I could be normal, but I can’t.” He held up a six-fingered hand as evidence. “It’s not just the fingers and the…. you know, the boy stuff, either. You know how I am. I’m always saying the wrong things and doing the wrong things and _feeling_ the wrong things. But you’re always there for me anyway. So why won’t you let me be there for you?”

“I…. I don’t know. I always thought that if I could protect you, then I should be able to protect myself too.”

“Stanley! We’re a team, remember? We take care of _each other_. It’s not just your job all the time.”

“Well, if you’re the smart one, then-”

“Also, stop saying that I’m the smart one!” Ford turned to glare at Stan again. “You’re not dumb, Stanley! You come up with good ideas all the time. You just…. what does Ma always say? You just ‘struggle to flourish in a traditionally academic environment.’”

“Pretty sure that’s just code for being dumb.”

“Now you’re just being intentionally obtuse. There’s more to life than being able to answer a teacher’s questions all the time. Sure, I’ve got the academic stuff down, but you can also see things that I can’t see. Your brain can make all these connections that other people can’t, and that’s a _good_ thing.”

“Uh…”

“Also, being smart doesn’t actually make you better than anyone else. I know Pa acts like it does, but it’s just because he thinks it can make you rich.”

“Sixer?”

“Maybe letters and numbers aren’t your strong suit. Maybe your writing sometimes comes out upside down and backwards. Is that really so bad?”

“Sixer!”

“What?” Ford turned and saw his brother’s pale face. Stan’s eyes were opened wide in terror as he looked at something over Ford’s shoulder.

“ _Sixer, get down!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if I should keep in the Shermie story or not, but I think it's kinda fun and cute. I also wanted to explain Stan's relationship with boxing in this universe. Let me know what you think.
> 
> Thank you all again for reading, bookmarking and commenting!


	4. Working Hard / Hardly Working

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford has a fun adventure, while Stan is forced to do math.

A non-comprehensive list of the worst days of Stanley Pines’s life:

Of course there were the run-of-the-mill bad days: the time he got food poisoning from the school cafeteria's chicken enchiladas and threw up all over his book during Silent Reading Time. The day their entire grade had to take a weird test and Ford was placed in the gifted and talented program, while Stan found out he had something called dyslexia and dyscalculia and was forced to spend an hour every day getting yelled at by the Special Ed teacher. The time he broke his arm on the first day of summer vacation and had to spend the next two months watching the other kids swim because he couldn't get his cast wet.

The day of his bike accident actually started out pretty good: he and Ford had made some money under the table helping the old lady at the waffle place next door. They’d gotten free waffles for breakfast, and later went out to the boardwalk to get ice cream. The accident was bad, but he did get to ride in an ambulance, which was pretty cool. Well, he couldn’t actually remember that part, but it was probably cool.

The days _after_ his accident were pretty bad. He didn’t have to go to school or do homework for two whole weeks, but also he had to lie on his back all day because every part of his face was injured in some way, and it was really hard to sleep like that without moving at all. Also he wasn’t supposed to watch TV or even open the blinds because of his concussion, and he could only eat soft foods. Ma was really nice to him and let him eat ice cream and read _The Jungle Book_ to him, but also his brain was so confused that he kind of thought that he _was_ a character in _The Jungle Book_ , and he would wake up screaming sometimes, thinking that Shere Khan and his pack of wolves were looming over him in bed. It was actually worse than school.

But even the existential terror of recovering from a traumatic brain injury was somehow okay, because Ford was there. Ma had even convinced the school counselor that Ford needed to stay home for a few days due to “emotional trauma,” although Stan was pretty sure she actually did it for him, because his brother remained more or less as cool as a cucumber during the entire situation. It was nice just having him there, though; he had set up a chair next to Stan’s bed and would quietly read there in case Stan needed anything. After Ford went back to school, he would always come home with funny stories about their teachers and classmates, and since Stan was an approximately captive audience, he would also tell him the latest things he had learned about aliens and UFOs.

The day which had previously been the worst day of his life had to be the time that Ford was so mad at him after a fight that he refused to speak to Stan or acknowledge his existence for a whole 24 hours. Stan really had to hand it to Ford; he didn’t think his brother could do it, especially with Stan yelling in his ear and intermittently throwing things at him and knocking things out of his hands. The kid just kept looking at the space just over Stan’s left shoulder, a stony expression on his face as he went about his day like nothing was happening. Stan’s doubt and frustration eventually gave way to a hopeless depression in which he finally started to wonder if he actually existed at all, and then suddenly Ford snapped back to normal. It had been 24 hours to the minute.

As far as bad days go, though, the day he had to wake up at 5 in the morning, climb to the top of the water tower, talk about his feelings, and finally watch helplessly as his twin brother was snatched up and carried away by a real live pterodactyl was definitely the new #1.

 

Stan was still perched at the top of the water tower. Like a cat stuck in a tree, he was too scared to climb back down. It wasn't even 7 in the morning yet: he should have still been in bed. Ford should have still been in bed, but instead his stupid brother had been snatched up by a pterodactyl and Stan was never going to see him again. He was going to spend the rest of his life being a single twin, half of a pair. The worse half. Or, as Ma would say, the half with “personality.”

He didn't know how much time had passed; his butt was numb, and his eyes were glued unblinkingly to the distant point in the forest where his brother had disappeared. He almost screamed when he heard the crackle of the radio on his belt.

“Sixer to 8-Ball. Sixer to 8-Ball,” said his brother’s voice.

Stan looked incredulously at his radio.

“8-Ball, do you copy? Over.”

Stan gripped the radio in his shaking hands.

“ _Stanford!_ Oh my gosh, are you okay? I thought…. I thought you were…”

“Stanley, calm down. Everything is okay. Now, this is very important. I need you to write down two numbers for me. Do you have a pencil? Over.”

Stanley's chest was constricting; he wasn't getting enough air; he was going to pass out or die or something.

“Stanley, do you copy? You need to write these numbers down before I forget them.”

Somehow his brother's voice on the radio was making things worse. Seeing the pterodactyl swoop down, hearing his brother's screams, watching him disappear had been so surreal that it was almost like he'd imagined it. Hearing Ford's calm instructions was confirming that the whole thing had actually happened.

“Stanley.” Ford's voice was slower and quieter. “I really need you to do this right now. Do you have your backpack with you? Over.”

Stan felt the straps on his shoulders. “Yes.”

“Okay. Open your backpack, Stanley.”

Stan took his backpack off and unzipped it.

“Stanley, do you have the map in your backpack?”

Stan pulled out the crumpled piece of paper. “Yes.”

“Do you have a pencil?”

“Umm.” Stan frantically felt around his messy backpack. Finally he felt something sharp stab his hand. “Ow. Yes.”

“Great. I have two numbers for you to write down. Are you ready?”

Stan lay the piece of paper flat on the wooden platform. “Yes.”

“Okay, you can write these anywhere. The first number is 125. Do you copy?”

“Um, copy.”

“The second number is 56.”

“Uhhhh…. Okay, copy.”

“Read the numbers back to me.”

“152 and 56?”

“No, no, it’s _125_.”

“ _Sorry, sorry!_ ” Stan felt himself starting to panic again; whatever was happening was starting to feel a lot like math homework. Stan did not like math homework; just looking at the sheets covered with numbers made his mind and body freeze up completely. “Ford, you know I’m too dumb for this kind of thing!”

“You’re not dumb! You just wrote down the number wrong. Erase it and write down the right number.”

“125?”

“Perfect. Do you still have that protractor? I put it in your backpack last night.”

Stanley fished into his backpack again and pulled out a clear, thin circle of plastic with markings along the edge. “I think so. Aren’t protractors usually a half circle, though?” He wrinkled his forehead as he tried to think back to math class, which felt like forever ago.

“It’s for navigation. Okay, the next part is easy. I just need you to triangulate a location that’s 125 degrees from the water tower and 56 degrees from the Mystery Shack.”

“Wait… _what?_ ”

“Oops, gotta go.”

“Wait, Sixer!”

“Shh! I’ll talk to you later.” And his brother was gone.

 

One winter when they were seven years old, Stan and Ford had been exploring on the beach alone when they found a tiny boarded-up house. The twins became convinced that it had belonged to a sea witch, or maybe a grizzled old ship’s captain who had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. After thoroughly exploring the exterior, Ford became obsessed with the idea of seeing what was inside. They tried peeking through the wooden planks that covered the windows, but it was too dark to see anything. The twins spent most of the afternoon looking for objects that were suitable for prying the boards apart, but nothing was working.

Finally, Stan punched one of the wooden planks in frustration. His fist made it through the rotting wood, but he heard something snap inside his left hand and felt a blinding shock of pain all the way up his wrist. He screamed and looked at his hand, which was rapidly changing colors and increasing in size.

“Stanley!” Ford ran around the corner towards him. “What happened?”

Stan was starting to cry. “I hurt my hand really bad. Look at it.”

“Oh man,” said Ford.

The pair of brothers looked at each other for a moment, realizing that there was no adult nearby to take control of the situation. Their Ma was all the way at home, about two miles away.

“We have to walk home,” said Ford.

“Yeah,” said Stan. He sniffled a few times, and then stopped crying. Usually Ma or someone else would come running to help when they cried, but that wasn’t gonna happen now. And he couldn’t cry for the whole walk home, so what was the point? He set his face and the two of them walked along the coastline all the way to their apartment, Stan holding his wrist steady with the other hand.

When they got home, their Ma commented on how brave he had been. She didn’t seem to realize that he didn’t have a choice.

 

Stan pulled out his water bottle and took a drink, then slowly put everything away in his backpack, sliding the straps back onto his shoulders. At the base of the water tower, Stan pulled out the map, pencil, and protractor again. He looked at his messy handwriting: “125 degrees - water tower. 56 degrees - Mystery Shack.” He looked at the tools in front of him. He thought for a couple of minutes, and then got to work.

 

A non-comprehensive list of things that Stanford Pines could not deal with: grocery stores, clothing stores, and shopping malls. The lights were too bright, there were too many people, and the rows and rows of neatly-displayed _things_ piled up higher and higher in his mind and made him feel like his brain was exploding.

Another thing he couldn't deal with was new clothes. Before their Ma knew better, she would bring the Stan and Ford to synagogue wearing matching holiday outfits with stiff, horrible textures and scratchy lace. Stan’s tantrums were expected, but Ma was always surprised when Ford, after sitting quietly all day, calmly took off his tiny shoes as soon as they got home, lay facedown on the living room floor, and screamed.

“It’s the clothes, Ma,” an exasperated 15-year-old Shermie had finally said. “Just let them wear what they want, for god’s sake.”

Other things Ford could not deal with included any food that significantly deviated from cereal and peanut butter sandwiches, surprise parties, being hugged (by anyone but Stan), and any texture that was too smooth, bumpy, rubbery, or sticky.

Things that Ford actually could deal with: talking to the doctor as she poked and prodded Stan’s broken hand, finally convincing her to send them home with a stack of medical booklets containing information on the anatomy of the hand and wrist. Studying his brother’s X-rays during the car ride home and telling him that he had a hairline fracture in the neck of his fourth metacarpal, and how lucky he was that he hadn’t experienced any rotation or torn ligaments. Informing the next person who called him a “six-fingered freak” that he was, in fact, the proud owner of twelve distal phalanges, ten intermediate phalanges, twelve metacarpals, and eighteen carpals. It didn’t stop people from making fun of him, and maybe even made it worse, but at least he was in control now.

He probably shouldn’t have told him this, but it was actually a good thing that Stan had broken his hand, because it led to Ford’s extremely useful obsession with anatomy and physiology. He even used the information he memorized from the textbooks Ma had gotten him to correctly diagnose Stan’s displaced fracture of both the radius and ulna after getting flung off the old-fashioned metal roundabout at the park the following summer. Maybe he shouldn’t have shouted that in his brother’s ear, or gleefully exclaimed “I TOLD YOU” after the doctor confirmed that Stan would need metal plates surgically placed in his arm, but everybody makes mistakes.

In short: Maybe Stanford Pines wasn’t great with average, everyday things like fluorescent lights and polyester and eggplants and other people’s feelings, but he was fantastic in a crisis.

 

Ford’s favorite jacket was destroyed. One sleeve had been entirely torn off, and the rest of it was nearly in ribbons, which would normally be Extremely Bad, but he was almost too excited to notice.

The pterodactyl that had grabbed him had briefly stopped to perch on the belltower of a creepy abandoned church, which would have been cool enough, but fortunately he had been able to get some readings with his compass before the pterodactyl took flight again and brought him through a series of tunnels directly underneath the church itself. Ford didn’t know very much about Christianity, but he was pretty sure that this wasn’t normal.

Of course, the pterodactyl had taken him to its nest on the edge of a huge underground cavern to feed to its babies, which was not ideal. Fortunately, this seemed to have been a preventative measure, because the pterodactyl’s babies didn’t seem to be particularly hungry at the moment. In fact, the nest was scattered with the remains of what he suspected to be livestock of some kind.

Ford had even had some time to pull a notepad out of his pocket and jot down some notes and sketches. Although dinosaurs and other prehistoric animals hadn’t been his primary interest in years, even a layman would know that he had stumbled across a quetzalcoatlus, based on the size alone. He was in the presence of a living, breathing, prehistoric creature which had supposedly gone extinct billions of years ago. His four-year-old self would be thrilled.

The amount that Ford had already learned in about half an hour was more than most paleontologists learned in a lifetime, which was both exciting and humbling. In fact, he was starting to feel suspicious about the fact that the author of the journal hadn’t seemed to contact any scientific authorities about their discovery. Didn’t they think it was important to share this information with the world, especially people who devoted their entire lives to studying it?

Anyway, Ford had finally been able to drag himself away from the nest of the quetzalcoatluses (quetzalcoatli?), and now he was trying to find his way back to where they had come in. He was mentally congratulating himself for thinking to bring an extra flashlight when he realized that he still needed to get back to Stan about his side of the expedition. He crouched behind a rock and unclipped the radio from his belt.

“Sixer to 8-Ball.”

“Sixer!” Although it was coming in faintly, Ford grinned in relief upon hearing his brother’s voice. He had wondered if his radio would still work so far underground. “Are you okay?” Stan asked. “What’s going on?”

“I’m okay,” said Ford. “The sleeve ripped off of my jacket, but I think I’ve found the dinosaur cavern. How are you doing?”

“I…. uhhh… I have some questions. How do I, you know, triangulate?”

Ford couldn’t help but laugh. “You saw me do it earlier, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but pretend I didn’t.”

“Okay.” Ford sat down cross-legged, with his back against the rock. “You know how we use a protractor to draw angles, right? This one is exactly the same, but you’ll need to use a straightedge to make sure the placement is precise.”

“Uhhh, okay. Got it,” said Stan.

“Do you see how I calculated magnetic North on the map? Just place the protractor so the center is on the landmark you’re measuring, and the zero is on the magnetic North, okay?” Ford stopped for a minute. “Stan, do you copy?”

“Copy,” said Stan’s voice, buried among a mess of static. “Then what do I-” his voice was drowned out by the static, and finally cut out.

  
“Stan, could you say that again?” asked Ford. There was a bit more static, and finally silence. He waited for a few minutes, hoping that the radios might re-establish a connection. “Sixer to 8-Ball?” Nothing. “Hey, Stanley, I don’t know if you can hear me, but you’re just going to make a mark indicating the angle from the stated location and then draw the lines until they intersect. I believe in you.” Ford clipped the radio back onto his belt, the first twinge of anxiety starting to form in his stomach. He picked up his flashlight again and started walking.

 

Ford was almost definitely not lost. True, it hadn’t occurred to him at first to draw a map of the tunnel system as he worked his way through it, and he had made the beginner’s mistake of taking whichever path looked more interesting instead of staying to the left at every fork. But he had started a map now, had pulled out his compass, and was back on track. At least, he had assumed that he was, until he tried to retrace his steps back to the pterodactyls’ nesting site and found himself in a different area entirely.

“Fiddlesticks,” said Ford, who had never said a swear word in his life.

The area he had found himself in was, admittedly, beautiful; blue, green, and purple crystals emitted a cool glow that made the cavern look like it was underwater. After licking one (in the name of science, of course), Ford determined the flavor to be salty and coppery, like melanterite, although the glowing was something he had never seen before. Perhaps they contained some sort of organic matter that was bioluminescent? Ford’s concern was quickly squashed by excitement and curiosity as he rapidly jotted down notes.

He continued to write notes as he walked, until he took a step into thin air and fell into a small stream in the floor of the cave, dropping all of his things. Ford felt around for his pencil and notebook; fortunately he was able to find everything, and his notebook was soggy but otherwise unharmed. He was wiping it dry on his t-shirt when he looked up and saw what his flashlight was pointing at.

The wall of the cavern was covered in cave paintings. Fire, human figures, and death seemed to be a major theme, but there were also monsters that looked like they had come out of someone’s dark imagination (although, based on what he had already seen, the monsters may have been at least partially inspired by reality). The central piece, though, which stood over 10 feet high, was something that looked like a big wheel of symbols with a one-eyed triangle in the center. As Ford looked at the wheel, he started to feel deeply unsettled.

That shooting star looked just like the one on Grauntie Mabel’s favorite sweater. The pine tree matched the one on Grunkle Mason’s hat. Then his eye fell on the six-fingered hand and the set of brass knuckles, side by side. The exact images that he and Stan had painted on the water tower earlier that morning.

Ford felt a cold shudder run through him, and he heard a high-pitched _eeeeeeeeee_ in his ears, as if his brain was silently screaming. Was this some kind of joke? Had someone seen the vandalized water tower and immediately run down here to paint this picture on the wall? Why would they do something like that?

Ford moved forward to touch the painting. It was dry, of course, and impossibly old. The only reason it could have stayed in such good condition was because it had been hidden in this cave, deep underground, for tens of thousands of years. _But then why was there a picture of an ice bag?_ Was it painted by time travelers?

Ford flipped to a dry piece of paper and carefully copied down every detail of the picture for future perusal. His curiosity was telling him to stay and investigate the rest of the cave art, but every other part of him was screaming to _get out get out get out_ . He wished Stan were here. Stan would know what to do. Maybe he would crack a joke about the triangle guy’s fancy top hat and bowtie. Or maybe he would say _“Yeah Sixer, this place is giving me the creeps. Let’s get out of here.”_ And then Ford would know how to feel. He would know if he was supposed to be scared or not.

 

It had taken way longer than it probably should have, it looked like absolute garbage, he had almost erased a hole straight through the paper, and somehow Stan had worked up a sweat just from doing math, but he had drawn a triangle that somehow, magically told him where his brother was. At least, that was the idea, assuming that he’d done it right.

Ford wasn’t always helpful when it came to math problems. Everything seemed to come so easily for him, and he didn’t seem to understand why Stan didn’t feel the same way. _“It’s simple, Stan!” “Do you get it now?” “Why don’t you get it?” “Here, let me do it.”_

_“I believe in you.”_

It seemed cheesy, and Ford had probably said it without a second thought because that’s how Ford said everything, but that sentence had burrowed itself into Stan’s mind. Ford was the smartest person Stan had ever met--maybe the smartest person in the world, or even the smartest person ever to exist. Ford would argue that there had certainly been smarter people in history, and list off a bunch of names like Einstein and that mustache guy with the big spheres that could electrocute you from across the room, but those guys had a big head start over Ford. Ford was just a kid who lived above a pawn shop in a crappy tourist town in New Jersey. But when he got older, he would probably invent spheres that could shoot 10 times more electricity than that other guy.

The point is, Stan didn’t respect anyone’s opinion more than he respected Ford’s opinion. He wouldn’t tell Ford that in a million years, but whenever Ford opened his mouth and something nice about Stan came out, Stan would run over that moment again and again in his mind like a piece of sea glass in the ocean. So, if Ford believed that Stan could calculate his location with nothing but a map, a ruler, a plastic circle, and two numbers, then maybe Stan could believe that too.

Stan rubbed his forehead with a graphite-stained hand and squinted at the sky, trying to figure out how much time had passed. He’d already eaten his toffee peanuts and picked out the chocolate chips from the gross trail mix that Ford had packed for him, but his stomach was starting to demand some real food.

Stan sniffed the air as he and Shanklin headed out into the woods, with their map held out in front of him. Something in the woods smelled particularly… New Jersey-ish. As they got further and further, the familiar smell grew stronger, until Stan was sure that he wasn’t imagining it. Eventually he found himself crouched like a hunting dog on the scent, he and his opossum slowly turning their heads back and forth trying to figure out where it was coming from. It was a smell that had penetrated his nostrils day and night during peak tourist season at the boardwalk; a smell that even made its way into his dreams on humid summer evenings.

 

Someone was definitely running a deep-fat fryer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUNNN.
> 
> In case there was any doubt: I don't intend to cause any lasting physical or psychological harm to these kiddos! 
> 
> I threw in a bonus doodle! Sorry that it was a doodle of Stan's broken arm...
> 
> I might make another post that's just art, because I really want to draw Ford licking that crystal (for science). It's the little things in life.


	5. Life, uh, finds a way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan faints, old ladies save the day, and we learn how many times Ford has seen Jurassic Park (it's a lot of times).

“Hey!” Stan shouted as Shanklin jumped off his shoulder and scurried into the woods. He chased after his opossum, scraping his face and arms on the dense undergrowth, until the two of them emerged into a clearing. Stan thought that he could hear the distant sound of angels singing as he looked at the source of the smell; a red and yellow food truck bearing the name “Chiu’s Chicken.”

Stan had spent the first nine years of his life figuring out how to get his hands on hot, greasy, free food. Occasionally, if he and Ford were looking cute and hungry enough on the boardwalk when a food stand was closing, they would be offered a big bucket of lukewarm reject food. As they got older and less cute, the twins had figured out a pretty good system of distraction and sleight of hand that kept them well-fed during tourist season.

So, maybe Stan’s intentions were less than honorable as he approached this particular chicken stand. He wouldn’t say that he was  _ sneaking _ , exactly, or really even  _ sidling _ , but maybe to an outside observer it could possibly be interpreted that way. 

“Hi, Stan! Are you trying to sneak up on me?”

“Huh?” Stan froze in place, his back pressed against the side of the food truck. He slowly turned his head to look up at the serving area, where a middle-aged Asian woman was leaning out the serving window, waving at him cheerfully with a hand that had a fork taped to each finger. “Oh. Hi, Candy. What are you doing here?”

“Mabel sent me here to watch for you, obviously. Were you trying to steal my chicken?”

“What? Uh, no. Wait…. how did Grauntie Mabel know I was gonna be here?”

“Well, she didn’t, but then she saw that somebody painted a hairbrush on the water tower.” Candy pointed a fork toward the vandalized water tower, which was peeking through a gap in the trees.

“It-it’s not a hairbrush!” Stan said, blushing. He sighed. “Man. We’re in big trouble, aren’t we.”

“Not really,” said Candy, who had started using her fork-fingers to transfer chicken wings and drumsticks from the fryer basket into a paper tray. Stan and his opossum watched her hungrily. “We knew you would get away from us eventually. It’s in your blood.” She handed the tray to Stan, who instantly started digging in, angling the tray so that his opossum had equal access to the chicken wings. Candy waited for the feeding frenzy to slow down before she spoke again.

“Where is your brother? I haven’t seen you two apart from each other before.”

“Oh,” said Stan, embarrassed that he had briefly forgotten his mission. “Um. A dinosaur kidnapped him.” 

 

“...So the next thing I knew, I was all on my own and I had to solve this math problem that’s like, critically important to getting my brother back and everything.” Stan licked the grease off his fingers, putting the tray full of chicken bones on the ground next to him. “Hey, you’re good at math, right? Can you tell me if this is right?” He fished in his pocket for the map and handed it to Candy, who was perched on the steps of the food truck. She smoothed out the creases and examined it.

“Well, this map was obviously drawn by a ten-year-old, but the triangulation looks correct. How were you planning to get to this location?”

“Uhh…. walking?”

“Without a compass?”

“I… uh…. was gonna follow my heart?”

Candy laughed. “Did you get here by following your heart, too?”

“Nah, I was following this guy.” Stan pointed to Shanklin, who was busy gnawing on a chicken bone. “But what do you suggest, then?”

Candy stood up and stretched. “Well, I guess I could give you a ride. Under one condition.”

“What’s the condition?” Stan asked suspiciously.

“We have to stop at the museum on the way there, to let Mabel know where you are.”

“Aw, nuts.”

“Because she’s coming with us.”

“Aw,  _ nuts _ !” Stan sighed. “Ford is gonna be so mad.”

“He’ll get over it. Now hop in, and hold on to something.” Stan and Shanklin climbed into the food truck and looked around as Candy buckled herself into the driver’s seat. 

“Hey, wait, there aren’t any more seats,” Stan said. “This thing is just a kitchen. Inside of a truck. I don’t know what I was expecting.”

Candy pointed to an upside-down milk crate. “Like I said. Hold on to something.”

“Oh.” Stan perched on the questionably-legal passenger’s seat.

“Now brace yourself for transformation.” Candy pulled a lever, and Stan barely had a chance to grab the corners of the counter and the stovetop before he felt the food truck lift itself into the air and take a step, like a giant bipedal creature.

 

“What is this haunted chicken cart thing, anyway?”

“Oh, it’s like an Oregon version of the Baba Yaga.” Ford took a book off the coffee table and opened it up to an old-fashioned drawing of a little house standing atop a pair of giant chicken legs.

They were sitting in black armchairs in a room Stan had never seen before. Red curtains surrounded them on all sides, and a coffee table stood between them. Stan didn’t know how he’d gotten here, but he didn’t question it. He felt very calm, like his body was floating.

“The Baba Yaga is a character from Slavic folklore,” Ford was saying. “She represented true ambiguity. Sometimes she’d help you, and sometimes she’d hinder you.”

“What does that have to do with chicken carts?”

“Well, that’s the thing. It really doesn’t make any sense. People all around Oregon have been claiming to have encountered a similar figure, but she supposedly runs a little cart or truck that sells fried chicken. The chicken is either really good or really bad, depending on if she likes you or not. The cart also magically grows chicken legs to move around on, just like the classic Baba Yaga.” Ford suddenly stopped, a thoughtful look on his face. “Actually, that reminds me of something.”

Ford’s field notebook appeared in his hand. Stan had seen it many times before, but this time it was buckling and waterlogged. Ford flipped to a page and showed it to Stan. It looked like a wheel surrounding the pyramid guy on the back of a dollar bill. Ford pointed to a symbol on the wheel.

“Does this look familiar to you?”

Stan squinted and leaned in closer. “Yeah, it looks like a little tiny Baba Yaga house. It’s got the little chicken legs and everything.”

“I just found this on the wall of a cave. I wonder what it--”

“Ugh. Shanklin, quit it!” Stan opened his eyes. “Wait. What just happened?”

It took a minute for Stan to remember where he was. He was lying on the sticky rubber floor mat of Candy’s food truck. His opossum was licking his face frantically, while Candy and Grauntie Mabel looked down at him with concern.

“You fainted,” said Candy, clinking her finger-forks together nervously.

“You feeling okay, Peanut?” Grauntie Mabel put her palm to his forehead.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan pushed Shanklin aside and sat up. “I didn’t faint. I was…. taking a nap. You know. I got up too early this morning.” He stood up quickly, then lost his balance and leaned against the counter for a minute. Looking out the window, Stan saw that they were parked in the woods a few yards out from the Mystery Shack.

“I didn’t realize you were afraid of heights,” said Candy. “I would have warned you otherwise.”

“Heights? Afraid? Me? No way!” As Stan felt himself coming back to reality, he remembered what he had been thinking just before his… incident. He turned and looked wide-eyed at Grauntie Mabel, scanning her face for any sign of anger.

“I’m not mad, Sweetie,” said Grauntie Mabel, who apparently could magically read his thoughts. She bent down and put her hand on his shoulder. “I was a kid once too, you know. And a weird forest like this is catnip for Pines kids.” She straightened again and adjusted her headband. “Now, no more messing around. We’ve got a tiny nerd to save. Are you okay if we use the legs again?” She turned to look sympathetically at Stan.

“Pfft. Yeah,” said Stan, waving aside her concerns with one hand. 

“Alrighty. Now, let’s use this very detailed and useful map, which was clearly made by some sort of navigation prodigy, to get to Ford’s last known location” Stan knew that she was just trying to make him feel good, but he felt his face flushing and his mouth pulling into a grin regardless.

This time Stan was prepared when the chicken cart sprouted legs and started walking through the woods again. He furrowed his brow, trying to grasp onto the last threads of his conversation with Ford. “When I was asleep… I had a dream, actually. Wait a minute.” He pointed his finger at Candy. “Are you the Baba Yago or whatever? With the haunted chicken cart thing?”

Grauntie Mabel laughed. “I was wondering if you two would keep investigating that thread. Urban legends seem to think that every woman over 40 is actually a witch.”

“This is just a hobby of mine, when I’m not designing museum exhibits,” Candy explained. “I wanted to create an all-terrain food truck so I could move around more efficiently, but I guess people liked the idea of a magic chicken house better. I can provide some wisdom for you, though, if you like.” She thought for a moment. “Oh, here’s something! It always feels better to be half an hour early to something than five minutes late.”

“What?” said Stan.

“If you want to compliment a cute person, compliment them for their choices and abilities rather than their appearance,” added Grauntie Mabel.

“Always check for watermarks on bills over 20 dollars,” said Candy.

“I would prefer if you guys were real witches,” said Stan, covering his ears.

  
  


Ford was retracing his steps back to the church when he heard and felt the heavy footsteps. 

_ BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.  _

Ford had seen  _ Jurassic Park  _ approximately 468 times--once a day for a year, and then some. He had been breathlessly obsessed with dinosaurs between the ages of four and six. He knew everything you could hope to know about that movie; that in reality a Tyrannosaurus Rex couldn’t possibly have run that fast, which is why the filmmakers had resorted to optical illusions to make it seem like the dinosaur was keeping up with the car. That a real velociraptor was actually the size of a turkey, and that the raptors in the movie more closely resembled Utahraptors, which also hunted in packs, although of course they had feathers instead of scales. That, incidentally, Ford wasn’t entirely sure how people in Utah slept at night, with the knowledge that their state had once been the home of the most terrifying dinosaurs ever to exist.

Anyway, when Ford felt the rhythmic booming rattle all the bones in his body, all logic went out the window. All he could picture was the iconic scene in  _ Jurassic Park _ , where the camera zoomed in closer and closer on the ripples in a glass of water as it vibrated along with the steps of the Tyrannosaurus Rex. Only his body was the glass, and his heart was the water, and every vibration brought his mind closer and closer to the thought:

_ I’ve gotta see this. _

Did Ford have survival instincts? Yeah, kinda. They mostly took the form of Stan saying,  _ “Is it really worth it, Sixer?” _ Stan was the one who usually hurt himself with his impulsive actions, but Ford’s bad ideas were much more impressive in terms of scope. But he hadn’t died yet, and that must mean that he was doing something right. 

So, what was Ford’s reaction to hearing the footsteps that could only be made by the Tyrannosaurus Rex, King of the Lizards? Go toward them, obviously.  

 

“That’s him!” shouted Stan, pointing excitedly at the small figure as it came out of a darkened tunnel. He grabbed the radio from his belt. “8-Ball to Sixer. I’ve got visual on you.”

“I see you too, Stan.” Ford stopped talking, and Stan could also see him halting in his tracks at the entrance to the tunnel. “Stan, what are you riding in?”

“It’s the haunted chicken cart, Ford, I know. Just get in! I’ll explain everything!” 

But Ford had grabbed his backpack and pulled out a camera. Stan groaned as he saw the light flash a couple times.

“Ford!” shouted Stan. “This is not the time to be taking pictures!”

“On the contrary,” said Ford, “it’s always a good time to exhibit-- holy bananas!” 

One of the pterodactyls had emerged from a different tunnel. It dove at Ford, gripping the remaining sleeve of his jacket in its claws. Ford punched the quetzalcoatlus directly in the nose, buying himself enough time to grab the grappling hook out of his backpack. He slipped out of his tattered jacket, shooting the grappling hook toward the food truck. He retracted the grappling hook as it gripped onto the edge of the doorway, launching himself into the truck and right into Stan. The two of them tumbled onto the greasy floor. 

Candy frantically maneuvered the dials of the chicken cart, climbing out of the cave and back into the decrepit church as the pterodactyl flew in circles around them, screeching loudly. 

It followed them as the chicken cart made its way back through the forest, finally giving up and flying back toward the church. Stan and Ford squatted on the rubber floor mat, Stan watching as Ford took account of everything in his backpack.

“Hey, can I look at your notebook?” Stan asked as he caught a glimpse of it.

“Sure.” Ford pulled out his field notebook and handed it to Stan. It was still swollen and wavy from its dunk in the pool. Stan flipped to the last page that Ford had been writing on. There was the triangle guy surrounded by the circle of symbols, just as it had appeared in Stan’s dream.

“Sixer, I think I must be psychic or something, because I seriously just saw this in my dream.” Stan grinned excitedly at Ford, but stopped when he saw the pensive frown on the other boy’s face.

“Stan, does this thing…. give you the creeps at all?” Ford asked.

Stan held the page closer to his face as he peered at it, wondering if he was missing something. “Uh… no? Should it?”

“Whatcha got there, Pumpkin?” Grauntie Mabel walked over from where she had been standing by the window and looked over Stan’s shoulder. He shrugged and handed her the notebook. When she looked at the drawing Ford had made, her face paled and her mouth hardened to a thin line.

“Where did you find this?” Grauntie Mabel’s voice was suddenly sharp, and Stan and Ford flinched, looking at her with wide, frightened eyes. Grauntie Mabel shook her head and waved them off.

“I’m sorry, guys. I didn’t mean to scare you.” She squatted down next to the twins. “But listen, this is really important. I need to know where you found this, and if you’ve ever seen something like this before.” The boys shook their heads, and Ford haltingly described the place where he’d found the painting and pointed out the map he’d drawn on the previous page. Grauntie Mabel nodded thoughtfully, her eyes still fixed on the piece of notebook paper.

“Ford, honey, is it okay if I borrow this notebook for a little while, and then give it back to you?” Ford nodded. “Thanks a bunch.” Grauntie Mabel planted a kiss on each of the kids’ heads before standing back up.

 

When he turned to look back at Ford, Stan was startled to see tears rolling down his brother’s face.

“What’s the matter, bro? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” Ford rubbed his face and laughed shakily. “My jacket was destroyed. I know that’s stupid, but--”

“Oh no, your jacket!” Stan exclaimed. “Stanford, it’s your favorite jacket! I’m so sorry.” He scooted closer and put an arm around Ford, who had taken off his glasses and started crying in earnest. Ford leaned into Stan and rested his face onto his shoulder.

“Hey,” said Stan, when Ford had calmed down and put his glasses back onto his face. “I know why you liked to wear that jacket all the time.”

“Because it was so useful?” said Ford, rubbing his eyes.

“Nope. You liked that jacket because it was so heavy, and you-” he punctuated his words by poking his brother in the chest “-secretly like being squished.”

“What?” Ford laughed out loud in surprise. “Stan, that’s so weird!”

“Protest all you want, bro-bro. You can’t hide the truth from me. You wore that gross-”

“Hey!”

“-smelly-”

“Hey!”

“Musty old jacket because you like the feeling of being smushed by heavy things.”

“No way,” said Ford, gently punching Stan in the arm.

“Let’s find out,” said Stan. He wrapped his arms around Ford and transferred his body weight onto his brother, dragging them both down onto the floor. “What do you think?” he asked in a muffled voice.

“That’s... really nice, actually,” Ford finally admitted.

“Knewwww itttt.”

By the time they arrived back at the Mystery Shack, both boys were sound asleep.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/46478011184/in/dateposted-public/)

 

“I wouldn’t be a proper caregiver if I didn’t give you proper medical attention,” said Grauntie Mabel as she ushered the twins into the house and up the stairs to the bathroom. “But what I wanna know is, if Ford is the one who was kidnapped by a pterodactyl, why is Stan the one who looks like he got into a fight with a woodchipper?” The twins shrugged as they sat down on the edge of the bathtub.

“Grauntie Mabel…” Stan chewed his lip, looking down at the floor as she rummaged in the medicine cabinet. “Why didn’t you tell anyone that we’re actually girls? You knew, didn’t you?”

Grauntie Mabel turned back toward him, armed with rubbing alcohol and a cotton swab. Stan winced as she started cleaning the scrapes on his face.

“Where is this coming from, Peanut?” she asked.

“I don’t know, it’s just… you’re always so nice to us and I don’t know why?”

“You don’t know why?” Grauntie Mabel lowered her cotton swab and looked from one worried-looking twin to the other. “It’s because I love you, ya goober. You’re really good kids.”

“But we’re not, though!” said Stan. “Didn’t you hear me? We’ve been lying to everyone! Stanley and Stanford aren’t even our real names!”

“Pumpkin, look at me.” Grauntie Mabel gently gripped his chin. She looked him sternly in the eyes. “First things first. You  _ are _ good kids. I promise. And I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. There’s no such thing as being ‘actually girls’ or ‘actually boys.’ I’ve been around long enough to know that nothing in the world is that simple. If you tell me that you’re a boy, I’m gonna listen to you, not anybody else.” She turned to Ford, who was rubbing his hands together nervously.

“Secondly, I would never do something that you didn’t want me to do, okay? If you want to be boys in Gravity Falls, you can be boys. Your secret is safe with me. And if you want to be boys in New Jersey, or anywhere else, even for the rest of your lives, I’ll do what I can to make that happen too. Okay?”

“You can do that?” mumbled Ford.

“ _ Yes! _ Yes. You can do that. Who’s gonna stop you? Not me.”

“What about the police?” asked Stan, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“They’re not gonna stop you either,” said Grauntie Mabel, stifling a grin. She moved back in to cleaning the scrapes on Stan’s arms. “Gravity Falls police can barely stop jaywalkers. They definitely can’t stop you. Anyway, it’s perfectly legal. Your parents don’t know, do they?” Stan and Ford shook their heads. “Okay. Do you want me to tell them?” They shook their heads again, more insistently this time. “Okay. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. I’m sorry for not communicating that better. You must have been so scared that I would find out. I just didn’t want to start a conversation you weren’t ready to have.”

“Grauntie Mabel, are we freaks?” Ford asked, eyes still locked on his fingers.

“Ford, honey, no. We don’t call people freaks here. Has someone called you a freak before?” Grauntie Mabel bristled, looking like she was ready to fight someone if necessary. Both twins nodded their heads.

“Just back in New Jersey,” said Stan. 

Grauntie Mabel closed her eyes, looking like she was trying to calm herself down. Stan and Ford raised their eyebrows at each other; nobody had been so upset on their behalf before. Finally she opened her eyes, gripping the two of them by the shoulders.

“You guys are  _ not  _ freaks. You’re different from other people, and things are gonna be... a little harder for you. But that just means you’re gonna have to be tougher. But I think you guys are already ahead of the curve as far as toughness goes, right?”

“Ford totally decked a dinosaur today,” said Stan.

“And Stan used triangulation to pinpoint a location on a map,” Ford bragged, throwing an arm around his brother.

“Yep,” said Stan. “I guess we’ve got smarts. And… the other thing.”

“Punching?’ said Ford.

“Yeah, that.”

 

“Psst. Stanford.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re snoring really loudly. Also it’s raining in my bed. Scoot over.” Ford felt the blankets move and the weight of his brother settling in next to him. He heard the rumble of thunder and the white noise of rain hammering onto the roof.

“Did you just say that it’s raining in your bed?” he asked as his brain started to wake up.

“The roof is leaking. Hey Stanford, remember when Grauntie Mabel said that we’re good kids? And that we can be boys forever if we want to?”

“That was today.”

“Yeah, but I was just thinking. Do you really think that’s true? Because you said earlier that we couldn’t, but then Grauntie Mabel said that we could, so now I don’t know.”

“Stanley, do you know what a hypothesis is?”

“Umm. Yes, but you should explain it to me again, just in case.”

“A hypothesis is basically just a guess based on limited information. It’s used as a starting point for further investigation. Once you gather a lot of evidence in favor of the hypothesis, it becomes a theory, but even a theory is just an educated guess. Scientists never pretend that they know all the answers. If you’re not willing to accept new information, then you’re not a real scientist.”

“Okay, so, what does that mean?”

“I was wrong, alright? Are you happy now?” 

Ford felt his brother scoot closer to him.

“Heck yeah, I’m happy,” said Stan. “Are you happy?”

Ford thought about it for a minute. There was a warm feeling in his chest that was starting to spread through the rest of his body. He heard rain in his ears and smelled damp wood and felt his brother’s breath on the back of his neck.

“I am happy,” said Ford in surprise. “I really, really am. Hey, Stan?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but this has been bothering me all day and I never had a chance to say it.” He took a deep breath. “Pterodactyls aren’t dinosaurs. They’re pterosaurs.”

“Ford, I love you, but you’re a gigantic nerd.”

“I love you too. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And.... thus ends the first story arc! I definitely branched off from the "monster of the week" format I thought this would be, but I'm definitely enjoying myself and I hope you are too. Stay tuned for the next arc, roughly titled "Stans, Stans, and More Stans (plus Fiddleford)."


	6. Old People Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter in which Mabel and Dipper have a conversation.

“Hey, Dipdop.” Mabel knocked gently on the door to her brother’s office as she pushed it open. “It’s past dinnertime in the real world, in case you were wondering.” 

Mason looked up from his notes and smiled gratefully at his sister as she handed him a plate of pesto ravioli and a glass of orange juice. Mabel moved a stack of papers off another office chair and sat down. 

“Wow, I haven’t seen you so tired and sweaty since grad school,” she said as her brother shoveled food into his face. She looked at the chewed pens littering his desk. “If I meet a pen that has a death wish, I’ll send it your way. I take it there’s been a break in the case?”

“I’m so close, Mabel,” Dipper said through a mouthful of pasta. “It just feels like I’m missing…. something.” He swallowed and then paused, looking at his food suspiciously. 

“Mabel,” he said quietly, “you know I love your cooking…”

“What a great end to that sentence!” Mabel interrupted.

“...but…”

“You also wanted to thank me for being the greatest sister ever?”

“...you know how I feel about pre-packaged parmesan cheese.”

“NOOOO!” Mabel leaned back and pulled her turtleneck sweater up over her face. “I admit the deed! I was a fool to think you wouldn’t notice!”

“I told you, it needs to be freshly-grated to fully unlock the flavor.” Dipper sighed dramatically and shook his head. “No matter, it’s nothing to go to Sweatertown over. But why are you stooping to such low culinary lengths? Is…. is the Mystery Shack doing okay?” he asked, suddenly worried.

“Weeeeeeeell…” Mabel peeked out of the collar of her sweater. “I wasn’t going to say anything because I know you’re working so hard…”

“....yes, and…”

“.....and I know it’s been hard to even think about it since, you know….”

“....and yet…..”

“We’re not doing so hot.” Mabel sighed. “Dipper, we haven’t released a movie in over 10 years. People don’t care anymore. I know it was never a priority, but this is our only source of income now. We need to do  _ something _ to keep people interested.”

“I know.” Dipper sighed. “I’m sorry. I really dropped the ball, huh?”

“No, no, don’t say that! We’re gonna make it work. What you’re doing is  _ super _ important. Oh, I actually came down here to show you something.” Mabel held up a finger, fishing in the kangaroo pocket of her sweater. “Now, I’m just gonna show it to you, and you say the first thing that comes to mind.” Dipper’s eyes widened when she handed him the wrinkled notebook.

“The Cipher wheel,” he said breathlessly.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so glad you think so too. At first I was like,  _ that’s gotta be it _ , and then I was like,  _ calm down Mabel, you’re being dramatic, _ and then I was like  _ okay but what if it is? _ And then I was like  _ Dipper will know! _ ” 

“Where did you find this?”

“The kiddos found it. Well, Ford did.” She held up a hand in response to Dipper’s expression. “No, they’ve never seen it before, and they don’t know anything else about it. Don’t worry. Well, worry a little bit, but not too much.”

“Oh, good.” Dipper put the notebook down on his desk. “How are they doing? I saw them earlier this morning. They seem like good kids. Wait, was it this morning? I lose track.” He sniffed his armpit. “How long have I been wearing these clothes? Should I change?”

“Dipdop, if you have to ask, the answer is yes. But yeah, they’re doing good. They’re great kids, Dipper. You should try talking to them. I think they’ve had it pretty rough.” She frowned. “Rougher than I initially thought.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to them more, but you know how busy I am.”

“I know. But what if you keep being busy forever? I know you’re gonna solve this eventually, but it’s been 10 years! Time isn’t gonna stop just for you. The kids are gonna grow up. And I think they really need you  _ right now _ . And…  _ I _ need you right now.” 

“Hey, I’m right here!” Dipper grinned at his sister, who just crossed her arms. “Okay, point taken. A little time away from my desk would probably help me think, anyway.”

“Thanks, bro. You know it’s because I care about you.” She jostled him a bit with her elbow. “Take a break. Take a shower. Solve a Cubic’s Cube or whatever nerdy thing you think is fun. Things are gonna work out, you’ll see. AlsoIneedyoutoworkonSaturday bye!”

“Wait, what?” Dipper asked as his sister made a beeline to the door. He groaned and turned back to his ravioli.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/40298463803/in/dateposted-public/)


	7. Stan and Ford vs the General Public

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the Mystery Shack's biggest day of the year, which means that Stan and Ford are roped into helping out with the museum's visitors. No big deal, it's just social interaction, right? There's no way this could go wrong, right??

“Is it really too difficult for you to put pants on when you wake up in the morning?” Ford asked, sipping milk out of the bottom of his bowl. He was watching the closest thing he could find to Saturday morning cartoons in Gravity Falls: an animated special from the ‘50s about the dangers of the cold war, instructing kids to hide under their desks and cover their heads to protect themselves from nuclear fallout.

“Hey, I’ve never had the chance to wear underwear that wasn’t Shermie’s before,” said Stan, sitting down on the couch next to Ford with his own bowl of cereal. “And these ones have little rocket ships on them. See?”

“I see them,” said Ford. “But you can’t just go around in your underwear all the time.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/46582612804/in/dateposted-public/)

“He’s expressing himself, sweetie,” said Grauntie Mabel as she entered the living room to put the Moth-Bird back onto his home on top of the stereo with a freshly-glued coat of feathers. “I’m personally honored that Stan wants to show off his officially-branded Mystery Shack underwear.”

“Yeah, Ford. I’m just trying to wear my heart on my sleeve. Or my spaceships on my crotch.”

“Yeah, well, you’re expressing me too, you know,” Ford muttered.

“So what?” said Stan.

“ _So,_ ” said Ford, who was starting to blush, “I’m just saying that identical twins are always the same sex. And maybe you need to be a little more careful.”

“Huh?”

“So people don’t find out… things… about us,” Ford said quietly.

“Wha--? Oh. …...Okay.” Stan pulled his feet up onto the couch and hugged his knees to his chest. “I’m sorry, Ford. I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“Hey, hey, this conversation got heavy for a Saturday morning,” Grauntie Mabel cut in. “Stan, your new underpants are beautiful. Ford, how’s that jacket feeling?”

“It just needs some more pockets, but it’s good,” said Ford. He was wearing a brand-new jacket from the gift shop: it was lime green with an orange atom symbol on the back, just like the one worn by the title character in _Atomic Adam and the Attack of the Atomaniacs_.

“Grauntie Mabel, did you really have to watch these videos in school?” Stan asked as an animated turtle told the audience how to identify a bomb shelter.

“How old do you think I am?” asked Grauntie Mabel.

“Um…” Stan rubbed his chin and squinted at her.

“Just kidding. Don’t answer that question. I’d rather not know,” said Grauntie Mabel.

“I’m just not buying that hiding under a desk can protect you from the atom bomb,” said Ford. “I mean, sure, it could protect you from falling objects, but what about burns and radiation sickness? Not to mention the increased long-term risk of--”

“Ohh-kay there, Brainiac.” Grauntie Mabel interrupted. “Now, as you guys know, today is the famous Gravity Falls Lumberjack Festival. Which means that there are gonna be a lot of people showing up _here_ because they got lost on the way to the festival, and we’re gonna need all hands on deck because Dan and Grenda are both competing in the Lumberjack Games. That leaves you two, me, Candy, and your Grunkle Mason if I can talk him into it. We’ve also got that weird kid Toby on call if we need him.”

“Aw man,” Stan whined. “But I’m really invested in this… ten-hour marathon of animated public service announcements?”

“It’ll be fun!” said Grauntie Mabel. “You just hang out at the entrance and refuse to give people directions until they’ve gone through the museum!”

“Is it legal to make children do that?” asked Ford.

“You guys are such spoilsports. It’ll be good for you! Practice your social skills. Make friends!”

“Do I need to wear pants?” asked Stan.

 

“I can’t believe she made me put on pants,” Stan complained to his brother as they hunkered down on the front porch, waiting for the first wave of confused tourists. He turned to look at Ford, who was scratching Shanklin’s head absentmindedly with a worried frown on his face. “You okay there, bro?”

“I don’t think I’m cut out for customer service,” Ford said quietly. “People don’t really like me, do they? What if someone spills punch on me again?”

“Well, I don’t think anyone is gonna have punch on them,” said Stan. “Also, that thing with Kathy was a one-time thing. I don’t think most people want to spill punch on you. It’ll be fine! Just think about how Pa talks to customers in the store.”

“Well, usually he yells at them, and then they yell at him, and then they throw things and Pa makes us clean it up. Also that one guy punched Pa in the face.” Ford went pale. “Do you think someone might punch us in the face?”

“What? No! Okay, try to think of what Pa _wouldn’t_ do, and then do that.”

“Here come the tourists!” said Grauntie Mabel, bursting through the door and making the twins jump. A cluster of cars and vans was making its way through the woods and toward the museum. “Go say hi, guys!”

“Uh, okay.” Stan stood up, Shanklin balanced on his head, as the cars started to park and people came out, sporting maps and confused expressions. “Welcome to the Mystery Shack! Come on in! We’ve got public restrooms! Just pay the $5 entrance fee.”

“Hi,” said a man with his nose in an Oregon road map. “We’re actually looking for the…” he looked up at Stan for the first time, his eyes widening with horror.

“The gift shop? Right this way!” said Stan, trying to remember how the carnival barkers did it back on the New Jersey boardwalk. Maybe it would be better if he had a suit. A top hat, perhaps?

“Is that a rat?” said the man, gaping at Shanklin. “That thing is huge! Honey, are you seeing this?” Now the entire family was looking at Stan and backing away slowly.

“Oh, that’s a common misconception, but Shanklin is actually an opossum,” said Stan, who was starting to sweat. This was not how things were supposed to go. These people were supposed to be paying for tours and buying things in the gift shop, not looking at him and his four-legged friend in a Very Uncomfortable Way.

“He’s actually more closely related to kangaroos and other marsupials,” cut in Ford, who had run to his defense. “Opossums are the only marsupials in North America, and they’re actually more resistant to--” The family had backed up all the way to their cars, and were starting to climb in. “--RABIES AND OTHER INFECTIOUS DISEASES THAN OTHER NORTH AMERICAN MAMMALS!” Ford spoke up so the people could still hear him as they got into their cars, slammed the doors, and drove away.

“Great…. uh…. great start, guys,” said Grauntie Mabel. “Wow. That was really awkward.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “What do you think went wrong there?”

“They didn’t know enough about marsupials?” said Ford.

“I think I need a top hat,” said Stan.

“Um.” said Grauntie Mabel. “That’s not… uh… Stan, do you need to have your opossum with you today?”

“Shanklin’s not _my_ opossum,” Stan shrugged. “He does what he wants. He just chooses to hang out with me.”

“Well, _that’s_ adorable,” said Grauntie Mabel. “Tell you what. I’ll take over as the greeter, and you two can hang out in the exhibits, answer people’s questions, make sure kids don’t lick the Peppermint Planet. Try to be friendly! And… maybe Shanklin would be open to being a bit more discreet?”

“Way ahead of you,” said Stan.

 

“How do you just walk up and talk to people?” asked Ford. The two of them were standing motionless in the crowded exhibit hall, feeling very distinctly that they were Not Doing Their Jobs.

“Easy! I think,” said Stan, gripping the straps of his backpack. Shanklin’s nose poked out of the gap Stan had left in the zipper. “What are the three Cs Shermie told us about? Confidence. Comedy. Carrying your opossum friend around in your backpack so you can absorb his calming presence.”

“I don’t know about that last one,” said Ford.

“Well, I forget the last C. I was never great at remembering what people say. Or paying attention to people when they’re talking,” said Stan. He walked up to a preteen girl who was reading the sign on the _Attack of the Cyborg_ display.

“Hey,” he said. “Uh, did you know that me and my brother are cyborgs too?”

The girl looked at them skeptically. “Oh, yeah? Prove it.”

Stan grinned and pointed at his braces. Then he pointed at Ford's glasses. “Ta-dah! Man and machine, working in harmony!”

“Oh.” The girl rolled her eyes and started to walk away.

“Wait!” said Stan, chasing after her. “I actually do have metal in my arm. See this scar?” He pointed at the pink scar on his forearm. “You can feel it if you press down here.”

“Leave me alone, weirdo,” the girl said.

“Okay! Sorry!” Stan stopped, and Ford caught up with him, patting his shoulder reassuringly.

“Maybe we should split up. We'll cover more ground that way,” Stan suggested.

“Fine by me,” said Ford.

 

“Do you come here often?” asked Stan, trying to lean casually against the wall.

“Um, no,” said a young boy who was looking at the mermaid display with his older sister. The boy pointed at his and his sister’s matching shirts, and then gestured at the plethora of people around the gallery who were wearing the same shirt. “We’re with a tour group. We were gonna go to the Lumberjack Festival, but we ended up in this lame place instead.”

“Oh,” said Stan. “Um, I live here.”

“Inside the museum?” asked the girl suspiciously.

“Yeah. I’m actually a statue. If anyone asks, you didn’t see me move,” said Stan.

“You’re such a freak,” said the girl.

“You know, I actually get that a lot,” said Stan as she grabbed her brother’s arm and pulled him away. The younger boy stared curiously at Stan until they disappeared into the crowd.

"I'm unappreciated in my time," he grumbled.

  


Stan decided to try a new tactic.

“Hi,” he said, emerging from the dusty felt swamp where the Swamp Guy resided. A flock of children ran away screaming.

“Hmm.” Stan scratched his head and sneezed. “That did not work…. Or did it?”

 

Stan spent the next hour trying to trick people into interacting with him: he and Shanklin hid in a space suit, a treasure chest, and a paper mache jungle. The museum visitors didn’t seem to appreciate it very much, but Stan was actually having a lot of fun. Finally he decided to hunt down his brother to see if Ford was having any better luck.

“Tough crowd, huh?” he said as he came up behind Ford, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor near the cyborg exhibit where they’d parted ways.

“Oh, hi, Stan.” Ford turned and smiled at him. “Fiddleford, this is my brother Stan. Stan, this is Fiddleford. Look at what he’s been showing me!”

Stan realized that there was a skinny boy with glasses sitting on the floor across from Ford.

“Oh, it ain’t much,” said the other boy, pushing his dirty-blond hair out of his face. “Just a gift for my little brother’s birthday.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/47253443052/in/dateposted-public/)

“Fiddleford isn’t a real name,” said Stan, squatting down next to his brother.

“Stan!” hissed Ford, but the other boy just laughed.

“Well, I reckon it is now, seeing as it’s my name,” he said. Fiddleford’s clothes were worn-out and dirty, and he radiated the same sour pig smell that Waddles did. On the floor between the boys, a small robot was rapidly twisting a Cubic’s Cube. When the cube was fully solved, the robot made a _ding_ sound and transformed itself into a little display stand for the puzzle.

“That’s fantastic,” said Ford. He picked up the cube and scrambled it before handing it back to the robot, which immediately got to work solving it again.

“So, what, it just solves the puzzle?” asked Stan. “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t you realize how complicated that is?” asked Ford, who was practically foaming at the mouth. “I mean, first of all, it needs to be able to recognize the colors, and then you need to program in the pattern for solving it, and then the way it recognizes whether or not it’s solved...”

“Nah, he’s right,” said Fiddleford, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “It ain’t that impressive. The folks at MIT built one that can do it in .38 seconds. I was actually trying to make a robot that could _teach_ you how to solve a Cubic’s Cube. My brothers and sisters are always askin’ me how to do it, and I’m happy to help, but I have a lot of responsibilities already, bein’ the oldest and all. We’ll see if I can get it done before Dooner’s birthday. My brother, that is.”

“Well, it’s impressive enough already, in my opinion,” said Ford. He turned to grin at Stan. “Fiddleford and his family are moving into the farming lot just a half a mile away from here. Isn’t that cool? We’ll get to hang out with him all summer.”

“My dad heard that the livestock here tends to reach… unusual sizes,” explained Fiddleford. “We’re hog farmers. If you couldn’t tell from the… you know.” he gestured at, Stan could only assume, the entire essence of his being.

Stan was still trying to process what was going on. Everything seemed like it was happening so fast. Stan had spent the last hour actively trying to make conversation with people, and had somehow failed to have even one positive interaction with someone. But apparently all Ford needed was to be left alone for an hour, and the universe would just give him a new best friend. How was that fair?

“Oh, cool. I’m so glad there are gonna be more nerds around here. That’s exactly what I need.” Stan stood up. “I’m gonna go make sure nobody is licking the Peppermint Planet.”

“Nice to meetcha,” said Fiddleford as Stan beat a hasty retreat.

“Sorry about him,” he heard Ford say. “Usually he’s not such a jerk.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/47305833431/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Dipper tripped over a child and almost broke his neck as he rushed into his sister’s office.

“Whoa there. Sorry, champ.”

The kid was lying between the doorway and the copy machine, doodling on a piece of printer paper. Was it Stan or Ford? Dipper glanced at his hand to see how many fingers were on it.

“Didn’t see you there, Stan. Are you okay?”

“Hi, Grunkle Mason. I’m okay.” The kid didn’t look up from his picture, although he hunched his body over it and glared at Dipper when he tried to get a better look. “Grauntie Mabel said I was allowed to be here,” he said defensively.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t say anything,” said Dipper, appeasingly waving the map that was clutched in his hand. When had he become an intimidating authority figure? “Your Grauntie Mabel sent me to make some copies of this map. It turns out that a lot of the people here are just trying to figure out how to get away from here.”

Stan squinted at the map. The kid definitely needed glasses.

“Don’t you need, like, special paper for that?” he asked. “This is just a regular copy machine. Well, a busted copy machine.” Stan turned to eyeball the machine. “Does that thing even work? I thought it might just be for decoration.”

“Oh, it works, all right,” said Dipper. “And I’ll have you know, it _isn’t_ just a regular copy machine.” Stan watched skeptically as Dipper lifted the top and placed the unfolded map on the glass. He pressed a few buttons and the machine got to work, shaking a bit and emitting some banging sounds before it started spitting out copies of the map. Dipper picked one up and presented it to Stan for his approval.

“Huh,” said Stan, turning it over in his hands. “It copied both sides, and--”

“It’s a perfect copy!” Dipper interrupted excitedly. It had been a while since he’d had the chance to explain an invention to someone. Maybe Mabel was right; being alone all the time wasn’t doing him any favors. “It’s the same size, the same paper, and it even folds in the same places!”

“Hmm,” said Stan, inspecting the map. “I guess that’s pretty cool,” he finally conceded. “What else can it copy?”

“It can copy anything! Books, magazines, newspaper--”

“Can it copy things that aren’t paper?” Stan asked. “Like…” he grabbed an Atomic Adam action figure from the bookshelf. “...This thing?”

“I guess it _could_.” Dipper scratched his head. “I’ve never tried copying three-dimensional objects before. I don’t think it would be very good for the machine.”

“Can we try it?” Stan asked. “Pleeeeeease?”

“Well, okay,” Dipper conceded, more out of curiosity than anything.

“Yesss!” Stan removed the map and placed the action figure on the glass. He started to push the button to print 100 copies before Dipper intercepted him.

“We’ve gotta start small, bud,” he said. “Just to make sure it works.”

“Aw,” said Stan, as Dipper deleted the two 0s and pressed “Scan.” After a bit more shaking and slightly-concerning noises, the machine spit out a piece of paper with a picture of the action figure on it. As they watched, the figure slowly grew three-dimensional and became detached from the paper. Stan rushed over to pick it up.

“Would ya look at that,” said Dipper.

“It’s a perfect copy,” said Stan. “I thought it would feel like paper, but it’s plastic.”

Suddenly Dipper remembered what he had been sent to do. “Oh, shoot. I’ve got to bring these maps down to the gift shop before your Grauntie Mabel kills me. Do you mind if I take that Atomic Adam with me to look over in my lab?” Stan reluctantly handed over the copied action figure.

“Thanks, bud. I’ll let you know the results when I’m done.” Dipper gathered up the maps and headed for the door. “Oh, don’t make any more copies with that,” he said as an afterthought. “I’m not sure how ionically stable it is. See ya!”


	8. Stans, Stans, and More Stans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some stuff happens. Maybe some of it is Stan's fault. Who can say? The world is just an unfair place, okay? Can you blame a guy for having feelings sometimes, and then making bad decisions because of those feelings?

“ _You’re_ a six-fingered freak!” said Crampelter to Ford. Ford blushed and hid his hands behind his back. Crampelter pivoted to point his finger at Stan, who puffed out his tiny chest in anger. “And _you’re_ just a dumber, sweatier version of _her_! And you’re lucky you have each other, because neither of you is ever gonna make any friends.”

 

Crampelter had been right so far: Stan and Ford had never had any friends besides each other. As soon as the other kids had gotten old enough to understand social norms, they avoided the Pines twins like the plague. They were just… _off_ somehow. Their family had less money than the other families, which Shermie had managed to bypass socially by being moderately successful in both sports and academics. Shermie also had some kind of laid-back charisma about him that was utterly incomprehensible to Stan and Ford. The twins seemed to radiate their lower social status like a smell they couldn’t wash away.

It also somehow took the twins until first grade to realize that bathrooms were separated by gender. This was an unspoken rule about society that nobody had thought to actually explain to them, so Ford had assumed that the correct bathroom was whichever one was the cleanest and had the shortest line. Maybe he should have wondered at some point why there were two nearly-identical bathrooms right next to each other, but there were already so many confusing things about the world that he just brushed it off as another societal quirk. Like how you had to say “good” when someone asked “how are you,” even if you weren’t actually good.

If Ford were being honest when adults asked him how he was, he would probably say, “confused because I don’t remember ever meeting you before and yet you seem to already know my name,” or “sad and scared because bees are going extinct,” or “not great because, as you can see, I am being forced to make conversation with someone.”

So, obviously, the bathroom thing contributed to Stan and Ford being social pariahs. Also the other kids learned the word “gay” and started shouting the word at them and laughing hysterically, even though when Ford looked up the word in the dictionary it said “lighthearted and carefree” and “sexually attracted to people of one’s own sex.”

The former was at least moderately inaccurate, and besides, it wasn’t really an insult. The latter also didn’t seem like an insult, and seeing as how Ford wasn’t really sure what sexual attraction even _was_ , it didn’t really make sense as a descriptor for him and Stan either. Ford asked his Ma why people used that word to describe them, and she said that they were just being mean and didn’t understand people who were different from them.

But Ford had finally met someone who didn’t know any of those things about him. He hadn’t even needed Stan’s help to start talking to Fiddleford. In fact, he had never met someone before who was easier to talk to than Fiddleford.

“So the word got out somehow that I was fixin’ radios, and next thing I knew I was flooded with kids from the neighborhood who wanted me to upgrade their GameBoys and such,” Fiddleford was saying. “Problem is, I did the first couple of ‘em for free, and people started thinkin’ they could take advantage of me.”

They were playing chess at the card table in the Mystery Shack’s small game room, which was only open to the public on special occasions. It was all dark wood and shag carpeting, with a few cracked leather couches, a bubble hockey table, and a big record player. The walls were covered in Pacific Northwest landscape paintings, with a stuffed moose’s head hanging above the fireplace.

“So what did you do?” said Ford, capturing Fiddleford’s Knight with his Bishop.

“Well, I ended up hirin’ a few of my siblings to do the customer service work, so to speak. Realized that it’s easier for me to stick with what I know, and that’s machines.” Fiddleford pushed his glasses up and rubbed his nose as he assessed the chessboard

“I can relate,” said Ford. He mentally ran through the list of conversational bullet points his Ma had taught him. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” he finally said.

“There are eight of us, total,” said Fiddleford,. “Five boys, including me, and three girls.” He grinned and moved his remaining Knight. “That’s a checkmate, I reckon. What about your family? Is it just you and Stan?”

“Aw, you got me,” said Ford. “Nah, we have an older brother too. Shermie. He goes to school in California, but he said he might stop by to visit later this summer, because he’s so close.”

“He’s not stayin’ with your folks over summer break?” asked Fiddleford as he set up the board to play again.

“What? No, he lives in California year-round. He’s nineteen. Is that weird?” asked Ford, alarmed that his family might be committing some invisible faux-pas.

“Nah, it ain’t weird. Some folks just choose to stay with their family to save money. I reckon your brother Shermie just likes California better.” Fiddleford chuckled. “It’s almost like you and your brothers are trying to get as far away from New Jersey as possible. Hey, are you okay?” Ford was frowning at the wall and twisting his hands anxiously. He quickly dropped his hands and turned to look back at his friend.

“I’m fine! Just thinking.”

“So _this_ is where you’ve been hiding,” said Grauntie Mabel, poking her head into the game room.

“Sorry, Grauntie Mabel,” said Ford sheepishly. “Do you need me to get back to work?”

“No, no, we’re doing fine, Peanut. You can keep playing with your friend.”

“Oh! Grauntie Mabel, this is Fiddleford McGucket. Fiddleford, this is my great-aunt Mabel Pines.” Fiddleford had stood up as soon as Grauntie Mabel had entered the room, and stuck out his hand to shake hers.

“Pleased to meetcha, Ma’am,” said Fiddleford.

“Fiddleford! What a name!” said Grauntie Mabel, shaking his hand. “And so polite, too! Ford, sweetie, have you seen Stan? I have a job for him.”

“Not since this morning.” Ford frowned. “He was acting kinda weird. I think he might be mad at me, but I don’t know why.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s not _mad_ at you,” said Grauntie Mabel. “He’s just an emotional guy.”

Ford nodded. “Our school principal called him ‘unpredictable and emotionally volatile.’”

“Well…. _that’s_ not very nice,” said Grauntie Mabel.

“I guess not,” said Ford. “Hey, can Fiddleford stay for dinner? The rest of his family is at the Lumberjack Festival.”

“Ah, so you’re here by choice, then?” said Grauntie Mabel, smiling at Fiddleford.

“Yes, Ma’am,” said Fiddleford, pushing up his glasses and blushing. “I’ve always been a big fan of your animatronic work.”

Grauntie Mabel clapped her hands and squealed. “Ooooh, that’s so exciting! A real live fan! Wait til I tell Dipper! Of course you can stay, sweetie. Now I’ve gotta dash. I told this lady I would be right back like 10 minutes ago.”

 

Stan stood with his back against the bookcase, staring at the copier as if he thought it would do something. The squat machine seemed to be regarding him in the same way.

“We’d better not,” he said to Shanklin, who was perched on top of the antlered rabbit (antelabbit? rabbideer?) head on the opposite wall. “I’m a good kid in Gravity Falls. I don’t hit people or yell at teachers or say bad words like I did in New Jersey.” Shanklin just cocked his head to the side and stared at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m serious. What if I break the rules and Grunkle Mason finds out, and he gets so mad he sends me home?” That was a thought Stan hadn’t considered before. What if they sent Stan back to New Jersey without Ford? He and Ford had never even slept in separate rooms before: when given the choice after Shermie moved out, the twins had given the extra room to their Ma to use as an office. What if he had to spend the rest of the summer dusting shelves in the pawn shop by himself, while Ford got to stay in Gravity Falls solving puzzles and building robots with his new best friend? How would he deal with Pa and Crampelter and going back to being a girl all by himself?

The top of the machine was still open, and the action figure was lying on the glass. Stan figured that Grunkle Mason had left it that way by mistake, and Stan should probably put things back the way they were before. He slowly crossed the room and picked up the action figure, walking back to the bookcase and putting it away. There was a loud crash behind him.

“Hey!” shouted Stan, whipping around to look. Shanklin came flying at him from the direction of the copy machine and landed on his head. The lid had fallen and the machine started shaking.

“Shanklin, you butt! What did you do?” The boy and opossum gaped at the machine as the noises inside got louder and louder. Finally it spit out a piece of paper, and the noises and shaking gradually stopped. The air was filled with the faint smell of burning, and a shape slowly grew out of the paper and hopped out onto the floor. It looked at Shanklin and started hissing, and Shanklin hissed back at it.

“Holy crap,” whispered Stan. “Shanklin, you made a copy of yourself.” The opossum jumped off his head and landed on the rug in front of his double, the two of them growling and circling each other in sinc. Stan crouched down to get a better look. After a brief standoff, the Shanklin double dashed across the room and out the open window. Stan and the original Shanklin turned to stare at each other.

“I won’t tell if you don’t tell,” said Stan. The two of them ran out of the room, slamming the door behind them.

“Stan! There you are!” he heard Grauntie Mabel shout.

“Aaah! I didn’t do it!” squeaked Stan, jumping about a foot in the air.

“Didn’t do what?” said Grauntie Mabel, jogging toward him in the narrow hallway. “I was just gonna say that someone dropped their wedding ring down the toilet. I need you to reach down there with your tiny hand and grab it.”

“Aw, can’t Ford do it?”

“Ford is busy with his new friend right now. Also, he has more fingers than you, so his hand is bigger. C’mon, it’ll only take a minute!”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/33507026688/in/dateposted-public/)

 

“Here ya go, lady.” Stan dropped a wedding band into the woman’s waiting palm. Instead of thanking Stan, she just looked at him suspiciously.

“Hey, aren’t you the kid who jumped out at my son from behind a sarcophagus?” she said as Stan walked over to the sink to wash his hands. “You really can’t do that to younger kids like that. Didn’t your parents teach you anything?”

“I don’t have parents,” said Stan. “I’m just an orphan who lives in the museum. I eat the scraps out of the garbage cans when everyone goes home.”

“I cannot _believe_ how disrespectful you are. I’m going to go tell that woman who runs the museum about how you’ve been treating the visitors.”

“ _WAIT!_ ” said Stan, jumping in front of her and spreading his arms out to try to stop her. “I am _so sorry_ . I never should have scared your son. How can I make it up to you? I’ll do whatever you want. Please don’t tell Grauntie Mabel.” His voice was wavering, and he felt a layer of tears growing in his eyes. Was he about to start _crying_ in front of this random lady?

“Okay, okay,” she said, looking a little bit frightened about Stan’s impending tears. “Just… don’t do it again.” she gently pushed past Stan and went to the sink to wash her ring. Stan dashed out of the bathroom, pushing past the crowds of visitors until he reached the entrance to the main house. When he was finally alone, he sat down against the wall next to the stuffed dodo bird, hugging his knees to his chest.

Stan’s lower lip was quivering and he had tears running down his cheeks. He hadn’t cried in public since his bike accident last year, and that didn’t really count anyway. He didn’t really know why he was crying anyway. Because he’d been reprimanded for doing something wrong? As if that hadn’t happened a million times before.

Feeling a furry presence beside him, he turned to see Shanklin cuddled up next to him. Stan lowered his knees and the opossum ambled up onto his lap, settling himself down with a small sigh.

“What’s wrong with me, Shanklin?” Stan asked. “Why can’t I just be a good kid like Ford? Or if I’m gonna be a bad kid, why do I have to _care_ so much about everything?”

The door opened, and Grauntie Mabel poked her head in. “Stan, sweetie, we need more… you okay, Pumpkin?”

Stan had stood up in a panic when Grauntie Mabel said his name. “I’m fine! Just allergies,” he said, wiping his eyes. Shanklin ran away in a huff. “What do you need?”

“The machine is out of gumballs again,” said Grauntie Mabel. “Do you mind…?”

“You got it!” cried Stan. “Whatever you need!”

“Wow, what a good helper,” said Grauntie Mabel in surprise as Stan rushed to the supply closet. “Thank you!”

 

Stan spent the next few hours trying to atone for his previous sins. The thought occurred to him that, although he was technically breaking the rules of the Sabbath by carrying things, sweeping, and sorting, his actions were accompanied by the sound of his Pa’s criticism just like their Saturday tradition at home.

It’s possible that his Pa’s tradition of closing the store and banning the use of technology during the Sabbath had originated as a religious ritual, but for as long as Stan could remember, it more closely resembled “Yell At Stan Day” than anything found in the actual Torah. It seemed like when their Pa wasn’t distracted by the customers or the TV, the next thing for him to focus on was his youngest son. More specifically, the many flaws of his youngest son.

Stan remembered everything his father had ever criticized him for, even if his Pa obviously didn’t. According to Filbrick, Stan was too weak, but also too masculine. He needed to stand up for himself, but also stop getting into fights. He needed to buckle down and focus in school, but also what was the point because he was never going to learn, was he?

As a result of Filbrick’s seemingly arbitrary criticisms, Stan’s Saturdays were usually spent tiptoeing around their apartment, desperately trying to prove himself to his father. Sometimes he would hole himself up in his room with Ford and read comics, the two of them only speaking to each other in whispers. Other times he would sit perfectly still on the couch with his hands in his lap, staring at the blank television and imagining the TV shows that other, more fortunate children were watching. He even tried reading the Torah once or twice, but he could barely even see the miniscule text, let alone understand the old-timey language.

As Stan hustled from place to place in the Mystery Shack, cleaning up spills and re-stocking bobbleheads, he felt the same sense of urgently trying to do things right. Grauntie Mabel, Candy, and Grunkle Mason thanked him continually, but he still felt like he was just one wrong move away from complete disaster. When he knocked over the postcard stand with a broom and almost started crying again, Grauntie Mabel physically carried him to the living room couch with a firm order that he take the rest of the day off.

 

“I never knew how many games Grauntie Mabel and Grunkle Mason had,” said Ford from the moth-eaten depths of the game room closet. He emerged from the darkness with a pile of disintegrating board games and dropped them on the shag carpet in front of Fiddleford. “Let’s see. ‘Necronomiconopoly’, ‘Battle Chutes and Ladder Ships’…. is this game literally called ‘Untitled Yahtzee Ripoff’?”

“Hey, a ‘D&D&MD’ rulebook!” said Fiddleford, picking up a heavy tome with a faded green cover. Red and gold text said _Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons: Rulebook 1 (2nd Ed)_.

“Oh my gosh!” said Ford. “That’s the vintage Second Edition that ran from 1975-1978! Are there any more in here?” The two boys went back and sifted through the rest of the closet, eventually unearthing the Second Edition _Dungeon Master’s Guide_ and _Book of Monsters_ , along with an old playing board, some miniature figures, and more dice of various shapes than anyone could ever need. They even found some yellowing character sheets and a sheaf of graph paper.

“This is the mother lode!” Ford exclaimed, flapping his hands in excitement. “I’ve been wanting to play this game for years. I even have a character sheet ready to go!”

“I love this game,” said Fiddleford, carefully turning the pages of the rulebook. “I used to play it with my older cousins back in Tennessee. We used the Third-and-a-Half Edition, but I reckon the gameplay is pretty similar. I’ve never Dungeon Mastered before, but I can give it a shot if you wanna play your character.”

“I’ll go get my character sheet!” Ford hopped up and ran out of the room, crashing right into Stan in the doorway.

“Ow,” said Stan. “Where are you going?”

“Tell you in a sec!” said Ford, disappearing down the hallway.

Stan stood awkwardly in the doorway, unsure if he actually wanted to go into the game room now that it was just Fiddleford in there. The other boy made a beckoning motion with his hand, patting the floor beside him to encourage Stan to sit down. Stan inched into the room, finally sitting down cross-legged next to Fiddleford.

“Is this a game, or what?” he asked, chewing on his thumbnail.

“It’s a game… of sorts,” said Fiddleford. “But it also incorporates statistics and storytelling. It’s called a tabletop roleplaying game. TTRPG, for short.”

Stan picked up the _Book of Monsters_ and started leafing through it, looking at the artwork of all the strange animals. He stopped and pointed at a detailed drawing of a shapeless creature, which was covered in eyes and mouths.

“That thing is crazy. Do you fight that in the game?”

“You can, if your Dungeon Master decides to put one in.” Fiddleford pointed to a block of text and numbers next to the picture. “Those are the critter’s stats, so you know how strong it is, how fast it can move, all that good stuff.”

“Oh,” said Stan, looking at the incomprehensible text. “I…. see. Who’s the Dungeon Master?”

“The narrator of the story, pretty much. This time, it’s me,” said Fiddleford, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “That is, I’ll try. It’s a little complicated, and I’ve never done it before.”

Ford burst back into the room, waving a piece of paper around like a maniac.

“Found it! I just need to modify it a little bit to fit the Second Edition rules.” He stopped in front of Fiddleford and Stan. “Stan, are you playing, too?”

“I guess I’ll try,” said Stan, shrugging. “Just ‘cause I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Great!” said Fiddleford. “The first thing you do is decide what kind of character you want to be. Ideally, your character would have strengths that balance out Ford’s character, so you can work as a team.” He flipped the rulebook open to a chapter on character classes and handed it to Stan.

“Okay,” said Stan, looking past all the text and pointing to a picture of a bearded man dual-wielding a sword and a dagger. “Can I be that guy?”

“Well, you can’t be _that guy_ specifically,” said Fiddleford, grinning. “But you can design a fighter character like that guy.”

“My character is a wizard, so it might be helpful for you to play a combat-oriented character,” Ford offered.

“Okay, then I’ve decided.”

“Great,” said Ford. “Now you roll a 38-sided die to determine the level of your character’s statistical analysis power orb. These orbs will relate directly to the number of quadrants your team has dominion over, which is inverse to the number of  anti-quadrants that are in your Quadrant Satchel. Then you roll a 6-sided die 7 times and apply each of the rolls to a specific trait of your character.”

“Hmm,” said Stan, whose eyes had started glazing over halfway through the first sentence. “Hey, who wants to play Crazy Eights instead?” Ford and Fiddleford both gaped at him for a minute.

“We’ve already committed to playing this game,” said Ford. “We can’t just switch to a different game.”

“Sure we can,” said Stan, raising and lowering one shoulder in a half-shrug. “It’s easy. I wanted to play this game, and now I changed my mind and want to play a different game. See?”

“Stanley, this is a completely different kind of game,” groaned Ford. “It requires extensive set-up and it can take weeks, months, even years to complete a campaign! It’s not just interchangeable with any other game.”

“Okay,” said Stan. “Then I’ll just go play Crazy Eights… by myself?”

“Hey now,” said Fiddleford, patting the air in a “settle down” motion. “I’m sure we can figure something out.” He looked pleadingly at Ford, who just twiddled a die between his fingers and glared down at his character sheet.

“Fine,” said Stan after a minute of stony silence. “I can have fun by myself. I don’t need you guys.” He stood up and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

 

“Okay,” said Stan. “I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. But we’re gonna make this work.” He glared at the copy machine. The copy machine didn’t do anything. “That’s what I thought.”

Stan lifted the lid of the machine and lay down on the glass surface. He reached over his head and pressed the start button, and the machine came to life. The machine whirred and clunked, and smoke started billowing out of it.

“Oh man,” Stan said to himself as he lay motionless on the glass. “This was a bad idea.”

After a few more moments of disturbing sounds which made Stan think that the copy machine might actually explode, it printed out a piece of paper with a picture of Stan on it. Stan hopped off the machine and went to look at the paper. The image grew outwards in three dimensions, transitioned from black and white into color, and finally hopped off the page and onto the floor. A perfect copy of Stan stood and looked him directly in the eyes.

“Holy crap,” said Stan and his double at the same time. “It actually worked.”

“Wow,” said Stan after a long pause. “You look _exactly_ like Ford.”

“That’s because _you_ look exactly like Ford,” said the Stan double. “Obviously.”

“Huh. I guess I do,” said Stan. “You need a name, right? Other than just Stan 2.”

“What’s a name we’ve always wanted?” said the Stan double.

“I dunno. Stanley?”

“Other than that, you knucklehead.”

“Hey!”

“Here’s an idea,” said the double. “How about I count to three, and then we’ll both say a name we’ve always wanted. One… two… three.”

“Dominick,” they both said at the same time.

“Alright,” said the Stan double. “I guess I’m Dominick now. So, why did you create me?”

“I guess I just wanted someone to hang out with. Hey, what’s something I could never do with Ford?” He and Dominick rubbed their chins and furrowed their brows identically.

“We could never play BS with Ford,” Dominick finally suggested.

“Right!” said Stan, snapping his fingers. “Ford is a terrible liar.” He frowned. “You need at least three people to play BS, though.”

“Hey, you’ve always got that machine to make more,”

“I really shouldn’t,” said Stan, biting his lip nervously. “What if Grunkle Mason finds out? I shouldn’t have even made _you._ ”

“He hasn’t found out so far,” Dominick poked Stan in the center of his chest. “Face it: Grunkle Mason doesn’t care what you do.”

“That’s not true!” said Stan. “He told me not to make any more copies with that machine.”

“But you already made two copies and he didn’t notice.”

“Hey, the first one wasn’t my fault!” said Stan. “It was Shanklin.”

“Who cares?” said Dominick. “You’re already in big trouble if he finds out. You might as well make more copies so we can have more fun.”

Stan scratched his head. “I… guess that makes sense. So, one more copy?”

“Better make it two,” said Dominick. “Just in case.”

 

Two copies later, the machine was still shaking as if it were trying to copy something else, and the smoke coming out of it had become darker and thicker. Stan banged on the top of the machine with the side of his fist.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “It should have stopped by now.”

“Bang harder,” Dominick suggested.

“Kick it,” said Stan 3.

“Headbutt it,” said Stan 4.

“Not helpful, guys,” said Stan. He turned to glare at Dominick. “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you.”

The copy machine started rapidly spitting out paper, and the small office quickly filled up with smoke. In a panic, Stan ran over to the wall and unplugged the machine. Stan 4 grabbed a folder from Grauntie Mabel’s desk and tried to fan the smoke out of the open window. When the smoke cleared, the room was crowded with a total of 10 Stans.

“Hoo boy,” said Stan 5, speaking for all of them. “This is bad.”

“I just hope that machine isn’t permanently broken,” said Stan 7.

“Yeah, we’re in big trouble if that happens,” said Stan 8. “Well, Original Stan is in big trouble. It wasn’t our fault.” All the copies of Stan started talking over each other.

“Everybody shut up!” said Stan. “I’m trying to think. Jeez.” He started rubbing his temples and pacing back and forth, finally stopping and looking appraisingly at the copy machine, hands on his skinny hips.

“The real question is, if you plug it back in, will it keep making copies of you?” said Dominick.

“Quiet, you,” said Stan, holding up a finger. He felt around for the paper tray, finally reaching in and taking all the paper out. He set the stack of paper down on the floor next to the machine, then plugged the machine back into the wall. Nothing happened.

“Is that… good?” said Stan 6.

“Looks like the screen is still shut off,” said Stan 10. “That’s bad.”

“Okay,” said Stan. “It might be okay. We’ll make one more test copy, just to see if the machine works normally.” He put the blank paper back into its tray, then took another piece of paper out of his pocket: the picture he’d been drawing earlier, of himself and Ford fighting a giant octopus. He put it facedown on the glass and carefully closed the lid. He pushed the copy button. Nothing happened.

“Yep,” said Stan 9. “We’re screwed.”

“Yeah, I got that. Thanks,” said Stan.


	9. Deus Ex McGuckina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford argue. Fiddleford saves the day.

Everything had been going great, up until Ford’s mysterious employer transformed into a giant rat monster and tried to eat him. Ford’s Level 1 spells held him back for a while, but the tables only really turned when he was able to free the guy’s caged dire bat and use Charm Animal on it. The two of them had ganged up on the jerk, Ford with his staff and the bat with its teeth.

“38! That’s a critical hit!” Ford grinned up at Fiddleford, who was suddenly completely ignoring him. He followed Fiddleford’s eyes to the doorway, where Stan was standing. His brother was chewing on the inside of his cheek, scuffing the toe of his sneaker on the shag carpeting where it transitioned into the hardwood floor of the hallway. Ford groaned.

“Stanley! If you’re not gonna play with us, can’t you at least leave us alone?”

“Is everything okay?” said Fiddleford, putting down his Book of Monsters and walking over to Stan. Stan looked back and forth between them, his eyes finally landing on Ford’s.

“I need your help,” he said. “I made a big mistake.”

It would be hard to calculate how many times he’d heard those exact words before. Usually Stan turned to Ford as a last resort to try to get out of some ditch he’d dug himself into. Maybe Ford had been working on his own science project for weeks, and Stan put off on asking him for help with his own until the night before it was due. Or maybe he’d broken something in the shop that he wasn’t supposed to be messing with, and he needed Ford to help him hide the evidence.

Ford was usually happy to help Stan. They were a team, after all. But what if Ford didn’t _want_ to help, for once in his life? What if he had finally made a friend for the first time in his life, and Stan had been acting like a jerk all day for no reason, and Ford didn’t want to deal with whatever problem Stan had inflicted on himself? What if he was sick of Stan taking advantage of his intelligence and good nature all the time?

“Of course we’ll help,” said Fiddleford, putting a hand on Stan’s shoulder. He turned to look at Ford. “Right?”

“Uh…” Ford really, _really_ wanted to say no. He’d never wanted to say no before, so this was both exciting and a little scary. But Stan and Fiddleford were both looking at him expectantly, and he had just met Fiddleford for the first time today, and the last thing he wanted was for Fiddleford to think he was a selfish jerk. Ford looked down at the gameboard and his dice, silently mourning the loss of his fun afternoon, murdered by Stan’s Stan-problems. “Okay, _fine._ ” He stood up. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Thanks, bro,” said Stan, leading them upstairs and down the hall to Grauntie Mabel’s office, fidgeting and chattering nervously to them the whole time. “We tried turning it off and then on again, but I don’t know if it blew a fuse or something, on the inside? Dominick says that copy machines don’t have fuses, but I know for a fact that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about…”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Ford, waving his hand at Stan. “Slow down. What are you talking about? And who’s Dominick?”

“Welllllll…” Stan paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I should probably just show you.”

 

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” said Ford, casting his gaze across a room full of identical copies of his brother, all of whom were bickering fiercely with each other. “But I wasn’t expecting this.”

Beside him, Fiddleford let out a low whistle. “What in tarnation?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said too,” said Stan, affecting a Southern accent. “‘What in tarnation?’ I said.”

“Sixer’s here!” shouted one of the Stan clones. He turned to the clone next to him. “See? I told you he wasn’t mad at us.”

“He’s definitely mad at us,” said the other clone. “Look at him.”

“He brought his smartypants friend, too!” chimed in another one. The clones continued to argue as they got closer to peer at Ford and Fiddleford. The two boys slowly backed away from the encroaching wall of sheer Stan energy.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/33606744538/in/dateposted-public/)

“Hey, you’re freaking them out!” one of the clones finally interjected.

“Yeah, jeez. Cut it out, you guys,” said Stan. The crowd started murmuring apologetically and shuffling back to their places. “Wow. I can’t believe that worked.”

“Well, that’s right unsettlin’,” said Fiddleford. He looked suspiciously at Ford. “Y’all ain’t pulling my leg or anything, are you? You’re not, like… dectuplets or somethin’?”

“No, I swear!” Ford held up his hands and shook his head fiercely. “I’ve never seen these guys before in my life.”

“Do you need new glasses or something?” said Stan. “They’re me, you knucklehead.”

“I _know_ they’re _you!_ ” Ford snapped. “What I want to know is  _how_ you did this and  _why_ it’s suddenly my problem!”

“Oof. Told ya he was still mad,” said one of the clones.

“I would appreciate it if everybody I wasn’t directly addressing would please shut up,” Ford said loudly enough for everyone to hear. He was met with silence, as a sea of Stan clones looked at him with wide eyes. He turned back to the original Stan, who was also looking a bit shaken up. Stan cleared his throat.

“Um, well…” he pointed at the copy machine that stood against the wall. “That machine can copy people. Basically. Or it could, until I broke it, and if Grunkle Mason finds out that I broke it he’s gonna be so mad because he told me not to use it.” Stan shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down at his feet.

“Fascinating.” Fiddleford moved closer to the machine to get a better look.

Ford closed his eyes and took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I’m not gonna ask why you used a machine to _copy yourself,_  of all things, after being _explicitly told not to use it."_

“Yeah, don’t ask,” said Stan. “You know, sometimes I just do things--”

“I know, I know you just do things,” said Ford. He sighed. “Okay, let’s just figure this out.”

“Do y’all have a toolbox I can borrow?” said Fiddleford, who had unplugged the machine and was already starting to disassemble it. “I just need a wrench, Philip’s head, flathead…”

“There’s one in the basement,” said Ford.

“I’ll get it!” piped up one of the clones.

“Thanks,” said Fiddleford distractedly as the Stan clone dashed out of the room.

“Do you need anything else?” asked another clone.

“Ya mind holdin’ this for me?” said Fiddleford, handing him the paper tray. “You can put it down anywhere.”

Soon Fiddleford was surrounded by a well-oiled machine of helpful Stans, moving things out of the way and fetching other things that he needed. The first clone came back, lugging Grunkle Mason’s old red toolbox.

“Appreciate ya,” said Fiddleford, unscrewing the top of the machine and starting to fiddle around with its guts. Stan and Ford watched on in amazement.

After a while, Ford reached out and gripped the sleeve of a Stan clone who was walking by.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about being a clone? I’m curious as to whether you have subjective experience.”

“Sure thing, bro-bro,” said the clone.

“Ford, you can’t just ask someone if they have subjective experience,” said Stan. “Uh, whatever that means.” Ford grabbed Stan’s arm and compared it to the clone’s, holding their hands next to each other and manipulating the fingers one by one. “Um…”

“I’m still mad at you,” Ford clarified. “But this is also very interesting. Do you remember where Grauntie Mabel put my notebook?”

“Yep!” said a clone who was standing nearby. “I’ll go get it.”

“You know, this clone thing is kinda creepy,” said Stan.

 

As Ford sketched diagrams and documented what he was learning from the clones, his mind buzzed with questions. How exact were the clones? Were they capable of independent thought, or were they just mental shadows of his brother? Could they eat? Could their hair grow? If left to their own devices, would they get taller over time? Did they have internal organs? Was it morally wrong to cut open a clone to see if it had internal organs?

“I reckon I found your problem,” Fiddleford cut in, grinning under a layer of grime. He was holding up a black cylinder and a lightbulb. “Your lightbulb and toner unit are right burnt out.”

“Are those… normal things you can replace?” Stan asked hopefully from where he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, working on a picture he'd been drawing.

“Look pretty standard to me,” said Fiddleford. “Your photoreceptive drum, on the other hand…” He looked closely at a different cylinder that had a shiny, multi-colored surface, like an oil slick. “I can’t figure what material it is, but it don’t look damaged at all.”

“So what you’re saying is… the parts that are broken are just regular copy machine parts?” said Stan. “And the parts that make it a magical copy machine are perfectly fine?”

“Yep, I reckon so. There might even be some spares around here somewhere.”

"We'll find them!" shouted a Stan clone, provoking a thorough search of the desk and storage closet.

“Would ya look at that,” said Stan, giving Ford a smug grin. “Our pal Fidds here just solved the problem all by himself. Looks like you were mad at me for _no reason_.”

“Hey!” Ford bristled. “Just because Fiddleford was able to fix the machine doesn’t make everything okay. You still made a dumb mistake and came running to me for help _after_ it had already gone south.”

“Well… well… it’s not like I could talk to you about it, you jerk! You’ve been ignoring me all day! Just ‘cause I’m not smart and interesting like Fiddleford. It’s like you don’t even need me anymore.” Stan crossed his arms and glared at the floor, his cheeks reddening.

“I’m not a jerk for making a new friend, Stanley! You’re the one who’s been acting like a jerk for no reason.” Ford stood up and started pacing back and forth. “It’s like you can’t deal with me being the popular one for once in our lives! You can’t just let me have this _one thing_.”

“What, so you think _I’m_ the popular one? Give me a break!” Stan stood up and shoved the drawing back into his pocket.

“It’s so easy for you to talk to people, Stanley! You’re not constantly scared that people are gonna hurt you or figure out you’re a freak. You can just say things without worrying that you’re gonna hurt their feelings, or that you’ll accidentally talk too much about aliens. I _still_ don’t understand how people are supposed to talk to each other. I just have to try to _memorize_ the rules, but nobody wrote them down anywhere. It’s exhausting!”

“What the heck are you talking about? _Of course_ I’m scared that people are gonna hurt me. It happens all the time! Or haven’t you noticed? I’ve talked to like a hundred people today, and none of them liked me! You and Shanklin are the only friends I’ve ever had. And now you don’t wanna hang out with me either, so what am I supposed to do?”

“I never said that I didn’t want to hang out with you,” said Ford quietly. “I was actually kinda hoping the three of us could hang out together this summer. I thought that was obvious.”

“Oh.” Stan seemed to shrink a bit. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, like a fish. “I didn’t know that.”

“Uh…” Fiddleford cleared his throat, shuffling his feet back and forth and pushing back his hair. “If y’all are done resolving your differences, I reckon I fixed that copier of yours, if you wanna test it out.”

“On paper,” said Ford, sticking a finger in Stan’s face.

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan pushed Ford’s finger aside and walked over to the copy machine, fishing in his pocket and pulling out his drawing. “I’ve learned my lesson and yadda yadda yadda.” He put the paper into the machine and pressed the button to copy it. The three boys held their breath as the machine started whirring, finally printing out one piece of paper. Ford rushed over to pick it up: it was a colored pencil drawing of Stan and himself on the Stan O’ War, fighting a giant octopus. The paper was wrinkled and folded, presumably just like the one that had been in Stan’s pocket.

“It may just be a piece of paper,” he said, handing it to Stan, “but you have to admit that it’s still pretty cool.”

“Yeah, you shoulda heard Grunkle Mason talking about it.” Stan rolled his eyes. “You and him would get along great. He might be as nerdy as you are.”

“Um,” Fiddleford cut in, “I don’t wanna be a Negative Nancy, but I do wanna point out that there are still a bunch of clones runnin’ around that might raise some eyebrows.”

“Couldn’t we just, like… release them into the wild?” said Stan.

“I don’t know how ethical that would be,” said Ford. “We can’t just leave them out in the woods to fend for themselves.”

“I wanna live in the woods,” said one of the clones.

“Me too,” said another.

“I don’t know if the woods are equipped to handle all of you,” said Ford.

Just then the door opened.

“Oh, there you are!” said Grauntie Mabel, carrying a tray with three glasses of pink lemonade on it. All of Stan’s clones gasped in unison. “You weren’t in the….  oh my....” She trailed off as she looked around the office at the crowd of Stans, all of whom had gone very pale.

“So… who wants to tell me what’s going on?” said Grauntie Mabel after a prolonged period of silence. Ford turned to Stan, who was sweating profusely and had a look of grim terror on his face. Because Stan didn’t look like he was about to talk, Ford took it upon himself to give a short explanation of what had happened.

“We fixed the machine,” Fiddleford added at the end. “It should be right as rain now.” He patted the copier affectionately.

“Please don’t send me back!” Stan suddenly burst out, scurrying across the room and gripping Grauntie Mabel by the sweater and looking at her with wide eyes. “I’ll never touch anything again. I’ll scrub the floor every day. I’ll unclog the toilets. Please, just give me another chance!”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Grauntie Mabel carefully edged her way to the desk and put down the tray of lemonade, Stan clinging to her the entire time. “Send you back to where?”

“To New Jersey! I swear I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Why would I send you back to New Jersey?” said Grauntie Mabel, ungripping Stan’s fingers from the holes of her sweater.

“Because I’m a bad kid! Grunkle Mason told me not to use the copy machine and I did! Also I was rude to the customers!”

“Pumpkin, I thought we already talked about this. You’re not a bad kid, and I’m not gonna send you back. No matter what you do. Why… why would you even think that?”

“Isn’t that just what people do? They decide they don’t want you anymore and make you into someone else’s problem.”

Grauntie Mabel closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’m not even gonna ask if someone in your life made you feel this way. Listen, kiddo, you’re probably not gonna believe me the first hundred times I say it, but that just means I’ll have to say it a hundred and one times. You’re a good kid, I love you, and I want you to stay here even if you make mistakes sometimes.”

“Oh,” said Stan. He sniffled a bit and cleared his throat. “Okay.”

“And now,” said Grauntie Mabel, looking around the room at all the copies of Stan, and then Ford and Fiddleford, both of whom suddenly found some spot on the wall incredibly interesting. “I think I’m gonna need more lemonade.”

 

“So, the copies dissolve upon contact with liquid,” said Ford, writing in his notebook. “Interesting.”

“I honestly didn’t know that was going to happen,” said Grauntie Mabel. “But I vote that nobody tells Grunkle Mason about this. So.” She put her hands on her hips and looked down at Stan and Ford. “Did we learn anything today?”

“Don’t touch other people’s stuff?” offered Stan, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Anything else?”

“Um….” Stan scrunched up his face in thought. “No?”

“Nothing?” said Grauntie Mabel. “Maybe something about trusting your family to care about you? Or reaching out when you need help?”

“Uh…” Stan looked helplessly at Ford, the same way he did in class when he was struggling to answer a teacher’s question. Ford shrugged, equally baffled.

“Anyone? Anyone?”

“Y’all are hopeless,” said Fiddleford.

 

“Roll to confirm your critical hit.”  Ford shook his 38-sided die between his hands and dropped it into a cardboard box.

“25! That’s high enough, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. Now roll for damage, and you’ll get double that amount against your opponent.”

Stan sighed as he watched Ford and Fiddleford play their game. The three kids looked up as Grunkle Mason and Grauntie Mabel walked into the game room.

“Welp, I think the crowds have finally thinned out enough for Ms. Mystery to take the rest of the day off,” said Grauntie Mabel, brushing the dust off of her powder-blue work blazer. Grunkle Mason looked down at the kids and their game.

“Oh my gosh, did you guys find my old DD&MD stuff? I’ve been looking for that for years! It all seemed to disappear under mysterious circumstances.”

“Yeah,” said Grauntie Mabel, rolling her eyes. “Mysterious.”

Grunkle Mason squatted down by the gameboard and looked over Ford’s shoulder.

“What character class are you playing? I haven’t seen that kind of character sheet before! What edition is that from?” Stan and Grauntie Mabel made eye contact and sighed in unison as their twin brothers started chattering excitedly to each other.

“Psst,” said Grauntie Mabel. “Wanna play bubble hockey?”

“I’ve never played it before,” said Stan.

“Oh ho ho boy.” Grauntie Mabel rubbed her hands together. “You’re in for a treat. But I should warn you, I can get pretty competitive.”

 _"You_ can get pretty competitive?” Stan hopped up from his place on the floor. “Floor hockey is _banned_ in gym class because of me.”

“Finally,” said Grauntie Mabel. “A worthy opponent.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/32541410527/in/dateposted-public/)


	10. Arts and Crafts Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howdy! As I work on structuring the next story arc, I figured I'd help tide you over with some Stan and Mabel bonding time! With both of their brothers obsessing over some boring game, Stan and Mabel work on a project of their own. Turns out that Grauntie Mabel already has a huge internet following!
> 
> Chapter 1 of the new arc should be ready within the next week. I'll just say that it involves camping and returns to our cryptid-hunting roots.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/47516484022/in/dateposted-public/)

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/46654016105/in/dateposted-public/)


	11. The Duchess Approves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Ford go on a camping trip with Dan and Grunkle Mason. Stan finds something in the woods. Ford learns how to wink.

“Dear Shermie, how’s California? Have you seen any sea lions yet? We learned how to take care of the museum, and I learned how to use a compass. Ford learned how to punch a pterodactyl in the face. We made some new friends, too. Our friend Shanklin is an opossum. Our friend Fiddleford is a really smart kid who can play the banjo. P.S. We’re boys now. Love, Stanley and Stanford.”

“What do you think?” asked Stan as his brother handed the letter back to him. The pair of them were camped out in Fort Stan on a rainy afternoon, listening to the  _ ping _ of water dripping into the receptacles that were set up around the attic.

“Um.” Ford scratched his head. “It’s good, but… you might want to elaborate a little bit, at the end.” Stan looked at his paper again.

“You think I should talk about how Fidds is a pig farmer? I wasn’t sure if it was relevant or not.”

“Uh, you know what, I think I’m just gonna write my own letter too. Just so Shermie gets, like… the full picture.”

“Good idea, bro-bro.” Stan craned his neck to see what Ford was reading. “Have you found any answers about Ye Olde Mysterious Book?”

“Nah,” Ford sighed. “Just more questions.” He showed Stan the page he’d been looking at. “This part is the weirdest, to me. It looks like blueprints for something, but… it doesn’t seem complete.” He pointed to the top of the page. “This part should be continued on the next page, the same way  _ this  _ part is a continuation from  _ that _ page, but…” he turned the page to an entry about haunted doors. “See? It just stops.”

“What kinda blueprints are they, anyway?” 

“Well, that’s another thing. It looks like a machine of some kind, but nothing here is written in English. It seems like it’s written in code or something.”

“Hey!” said Stan, grinning. “We write in code sometimes. That should be easy, right?”

Ford sighed. “Yeah, not really. I can decode things no problem if I have a key or something, but I don’t have any information that could help me with this one.” He kneaded his forehead with his knuckles.

“Well…” Stan tapped his chin and looked up at the blanket ceiling for inspiration. “Couldn’t we ask Grauntie Mabel or something? I mean, we found the book in her house. It must have been written by her or Grunkle Mason, right? Case closed! Right?” He peered into his brother’s face as Ford frowned.

“Well, that’s the thing.” Ford started flipping through the book. “That’s what I thought too, but there are details that just don’t add up. Grunkle Mason and Grauntie Mabel moved to Oregon in the 80s, right?”

“Yeah,” said Stan, picking up some construction paper and cutting it into a square.

“Well, the author of the journals talks about actually growing up in Gravity Falls. Also, you know how Grunkle Mason and Grauntie Mabel are both right-handed?”

“Uh, No.”

“Well, they are. And you know how when you’re left-handed, your hand smears all over what you’ve been writing and turns it into a big mess?”

“Yeah,” said Stan, scowling at his own ink-covered hand.

“Well, in addition to having different handwriting from both Grunkle Mason and Grauntie Mabel, check this out!” Ford pointed at a few places on the page where the writing had gotten smeared. “The author is left-handed!”

“Let me see that,” said Stan doubtfully. He looked closer at the book’s page, comparing it to his own smeared letter. “Well, I’ll be darned. Ford, you might be onto something.” He went back to folding his paper. “But that doesn’t prove anything. Maybe Grunkle Mason and Grauntie Mabel didn’t write it, but we still found it in their house. Couldn’t we ask them who wrote it?” 

Ford sighed. 

“Yeah, we probably could, but I guess I want to hang onto it for a little while longer. What if they decide to take it away from us? We already know that the book is right about a couple things. What if all the other stuff in here is right too? This book could be a really valuable resource, ya know?”

“Ahh, I see what’s going on.” Stan nodded sagely, holding his new paper fortune teller up to his forehead. “I sense that….. Ford doesn’t want to give up such a nerdy book full of weird stuff.”

“Hey, that’s not how you use that thing!” Ford lightly punched his brother’s arm, and they both laughed. “Okay, but seriously. Remember that giant bear cryptid we were gonna try to find?”

“Oh yeah,” said Stan, picking up a marker and writing numbers onto his fortune teller. “Before we got distracted by all the dinosaur stuff. The gumberoooooo!” He took on a spooky voice and wiggled his fingers in his brother’s face.

“Okay, yeah, it’s a pretty dumb name.” Ford laughed. “But the gumberoo is a pretty consistent figure in American folklore. And the journal even talks about a huge, bear-like creature that only appears in the woods near Gravity Falls periodically, just like how the gumberoo only wakes up to eat a couple times a year.” He showed Stan a page that had a vague drawing of a 20-foot bear standing next to a human for scale, and some sketches of footprints. “The author never had a chance to study it, because of how rare its appearances were.”

“So, what?” said Stan. “We just start poking around in the woods trying to find something even the author couldn’t find? Is that your plan?”

“It’s a start,” said Ford, blushing. “I’m gonna figure something out.”

 

“I don’t care about Dukes, or commoners, or His Royal Highness Lionel of Cornwall. I’m not afraid anymore, Mother.” The young woman straightened up to her full height, looking her mother, Queen Elizabeth, directly in the eye.

“Duchess, I forbid you,” said Elizabeth as she clutched her sceptre.

“I may be a Duchess,” said the younger woman, eyes filling with tears, “but I’m also a woman!” She flung off her hat, freeing her blond hair to flow in the wind.

“Booyah!” shouted Grauntie Mabel, pumping her fist in the air. “In your face, Elizabeth!” She picked up the sweater she had dropped into her lap and continued knitting, her feet propped up on the snoring pig that lay in front of the couch.

“Stan, are you crying?” said Ford, grinning at his brother, who was sitting between him and Grauntie Mabel.

“No,” said Stan through a mouthful of popcorn. He sniffled and rubbed his eyes with a corner of the hand-knitted blanket that was draped over both of their laps. “I mean, yes. From boredom! This movie is so lame!” 

“Uh huh,” said Ford. “I’m convinced.”

“Aw, don’t make fun of him,” said Grauntie Mabel, rubbing Stan’s shoulder. “He’s sensitive,” she whispered, shooting Ford a wink. Ford blinked in confusion for a moment before winking back.

“I heard that,” Stan mumbled, shoving more popcorn into his mouth. Ford started winking his eyes over and over, trying out his newfound skill.

“It is real nice, though,” chimed in Fiddleford from the worn-out yellow armchair as the TV movie cut to commercial. “Her finally standin’ up to her mom. Inspirin’, and all that.”

“Yeah, and that Count Lionel is such a jerk,” said Stan, pounding his fist into his hand. “He doesn’t understand her at all.” 

“These guys get it,” said Grauntie Mabel. “I know who  _ I’m _ inviting to my next Black and White Period Piece Old-Lady Boring Movie Night. ...And just where do you think  _ you’re _ going?” she added as Grunkle Mason walked into the darkened living room from the front hall, wearing a big backpack and carrying a box of stuff in his arms. He froze in the middle of the living room like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Uh, the basement?” Grunkle Mason squeaked.

“Uh huh.” She crossed her arms. “With your backpack, tent, and 20 cans of beans?”

“Would you believe me if I told you I was cleaning out the storage closet?”

“Not a chance, bucko.” Grauntie Mabel pointed at her brother. “ _ You’re _ going on a camping trip.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Grunkle Mason stuttered, “I mean, I am, but it’s not like… it’s for my  _ research _ , you know?”

“Ap-ap-ap-ap.” Grauntie Mabel held up her hand. “We’ve been over this. No ‘research’ trips until you’ve taken the boys camping. You promised.”

“You’re taking us camping?” Stan hopped up off the couch, nearly spilling his bowl of popcorn.

“We’re gonna help you with your research?” asked Ford, flapping his hands.

“No, I really don’t think that’s a good--”

“Well, surely you’re not doing something so dangerous you can’t bring a couple of 10-year-olds along,” said Grauntie Mabel pointedly.

“No, no, nothing dangerous--”

“So, it’s settled!” said Grauntie Mabel. “Fiddleford, honey, would you like to come too?”

“Much obliged, Ma’am,” said the boy, smiling apologetically and pushing his hair out of his eyes. “But if you don’t mind me sayin’, I wouldn’t spend a night in them woods for all the tea in China. There’s…. things…. moving around out there.” He shuddered. “Ridin’ my bike home from your place is excitement enough for me.”

“Well, I’m in,” said Ford, jumping off the couch and running to the hallway. “I’m gonna get ready right now!” The others listened to his footsteps fade away as he clambered up the stairs.

“I’m not gonna be able to get out of this, am I?” sighed Grunkle Mason.

“Nope,” said Grauntie Mabel. “Think of it as a little gift, from me to you. Something to keep you from doing something incredibly stupid.”

“What?! When have I ever done something stupid?”

“You want that chronologically or alphabetically, bro-bro?”

 

“Down by the bayyyy, where the watermelons growww, back to my hoooome, I cannot goooo, for if I dooooo, my mother will sayyyy…” Stan turned and pointed to his brother, who was hiking on the trail behind him.

“Did you ever see a mime, eating a lime?” said Ford, grinning.

“DOWN BY THE BAY!” the twins sang together.

“Down by the bayyyy…” Stan started again.

“How long  _ is _ that song?” Grunkle Mason panted from the front of the line, sweat dripping down his face. It was a bright, clear morning, and the air was still crisp and clean from the previous day’s rain as they hiked up an increasingly steep slope between the pine trees.

“It’s only as long as your imagination, Grunkle Mason,” Stan chirped, hopping from one tree root to another with Shanklin balanced on his head. “Or until people stop giving you rhymes, which is when you say…”

“Did you ever sing a song, and no-one sang along?” said Ford.

“Down by the bay!” finished the twins together, bursting into a fit of giggles.

“Anyway,” said Ford, looking down at  _ The Junior Ranger’s Guide to Camping _ , “It says here that it’s important to sing or talk while hiking, so you don’t end up surprising a bear.”

“It’s true, Mr. Pines,” Dan spoke up from the back, gently catching Ford as he stumbled over a rock and setting him back on the trail. “I was hiking with my family once in Idaho and we came face-to-face with a big Grizzly and her cubs. Mom had to fight her off with her bare hands.”

“Is that a true story?” said Stan, wrinkling his nose skeptically.

“What can I say?” Dan shrugged. “My mom is a stone-cold boss.”

“It’s true,” said Grunkle Mason. “His mom  _ is _ a stone-cold boss. She’s gotten first place in the Lumberjack Games every year for the past 20 years. But you don’t have to worry about finding a grizzly bear here in Oregon. We only have black bears here, which are much less aggressive.”

 

“Well, here’s as good a place as any to stop for lunch.” Grunkle Mason groaned as he set down his heavy backpack in the grassy space at the top of a hill. Everybody else followed suit.

“I’m gonna go poop in a hole!” said Stan, grabbing a small shovel out of his backpack.

“Just make sure you walk--”

“--a hundred steps away from the trail,” shouted Stan. “I got it. One, two, three, four…” his voice faded out as he disappeared into the woods. Ford, Dan, and Grunkle Mason dug into their respective backpacks for bags of jerky and trail mix, munching quietly and sipping from their water bottles as they looked down at the town below. 

The Gravity Falls valley looked like it had been dug out of the ground with a giant ice cream scoop. It had pine tree-covered mountains on all sides, and on the opposite end stood a pair of cracked cliffs, connected by a precarious-looking railroad bridge. Ford took out his map and peered through his compass at the distant water tower. He had prepared for the trip by significantly enlarging his map with tape and extra paper, and he used the water tower and railroad bridge to triangulate their current location, marking it down on the map and sketching out the terrain of the area.

“Who taught you about navigation?” said Grunkle Mason suddenly. Ford jumped slightly, startled out of his intense focus.

“What?” he said, blinking. Grunkle Mason repeated the question. “Oh. Uh, nobody. I got some books about it at the library. Stan and I are gonna travel around the world on a boat someday, so, you know.” He gestured vaguely at his map and navigation tools.

“Really?” Grunkle Mason leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm. “I didn’t know that. That’s very interesting.”

“It is?” Ford’s face was starting to get warm. “You don’t think it’s, like… weird and dumb?”

“What? No, of course not. How are you going to do it?”

“We actually have it all planned out,” said Ford, catching himself falling into the habit of being defensive. Every time he had told someone about their plans, he’d been met with skepticism and doubt. People seemed to think that just because he and Stan were kids, they couldn’t have legitimately considered the details of their plan. Even Ma seemed to think that their dream was a cute, childish fantasy.

“We’re going to travel across the ocean looking for anomalous phenomena and undiscovered species.” Ford leaned in toward Grunkle Mason, rocking back and forth excitedly with his eyes still fixed on his map. “Did you know that 95 percent of the ocean is still unexplored? The average depth of the ocean is more than thirteen thousand feet, but most of our exploration has been limited to the top five hundred fifty-five feet. That’s the same as the height of the Washington Monument, which, if you think about it, really isn’t that much.”

“So you’re going to explore the deep sea?”

“Well, yeah, but I actually wanted to start out tracking irregular weather patterns and changes in the Earth’s magnetic field. Did you know that the magnetic field has reversed its polarity 183 times in the past 83 million years? One of the longest periods with no change was during the Cretaceous Period. The magnetic field was stable for almost 40 million years!”

“Oh,” said Grunkle Mason. “I… did not know that.”

“Oh no,” said Ford, covering his face.

“What’s the matter?”

“I told you too much. About the ocean and the magnetic field. I shouldn’t have done that.” Ford started wringing his hands anxiously.

“What?”

“I’m not supposed to talk too much about the things I like. People don’t like it.”

“What are you talking about?” Dipper looked at the child in front of him, who was suddenly curled up in a ball of distress.

“You’re not mad?” said Ford. 

“Why… why would I be mad? You’re a genius, Ford!”

“What? What does that mean?”

“You know so much about… so many things! You’re only ten years old? That’s fantastic!” Grunkle Mason scratched his chin. “You know, I’m gonna let you in on a little--”

He was interrupted by screaming of an excited child. “Hey! Look what I found!” Stan burst out of the woods and into the clearing, brandishing a rectangular object attached to a pair of earbuds over his head and Shanklin not far behind him.

“What is it? Hold still,” said Ford, redirecting all of his attention to his brother. Stan handed the object to Ford, who peered down at the logo. “Walk… man? What does that mean?”

“It’s a music player,” said Grunkle Mason. “Man, those things haven’t been popular for a while.”

“Does it still work?” said Stan.

“It still looks brand-new,” said Ford. “It must not have been out here for very long.”

“Looks like there’s still a tape inside,” said Grunkle Mason, as Stan stuck the earbuds in his ears and pressed the “play” button. After a minute, he was bobbing his head and humming to himself.

“Ugh.” said Grunkle Mason. “Is that  _ Taking Over Midnight _ by Ampersandra? I can’t believe people are just leaving this stuff in the woods.Where’s the respect for Mother Nature?”

“Good thing Stan found it,” said Dan. “Who knows how long it would’ve been out there?”

“I guess that’s a plus,” said Grunkle Mason, scowling. “As long as he doesn’t start singing along.”

 

_ "We’re queens of the disco!" _  sang Stan as he and Ford looked for firewood. “Man, that song is catchy!”

“What do you think Grunkle Mason is studying out here?” asked Ford.

“Ya know, I’ve kinda given up on figuring out what that guy does. He’s supposed to be making movies, but mostly he just drinks coffee and talks about his ‘lab,’” said Stan. “Who has a lab, anyway? Other than a mad scientist?”

“Yeah,” said Ford. “It is very strange. But it’s gotta be connected to the journal somehow, right?”

“Yeah, but he’s not really interested in studying supernatural creatures, is he?” said Stan. “He spends all of his time down in the basement, working on something. And even on this trip, it’s not like he’s been drawing or writing about the plants and animals, like you have,” said Stan, gesturing at Ford’s ever-present field notebook.

“Yeah,” said Ford. “What would bring him out into the forest anyway? He usually doesn’t leave the basement. There’s definitely something fishy going on.”

“Let me guess. It’s up to us to figure out what it is?”

“How did you know?” Ford grinned.

 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/40637347203/in/dateposted-public/)

“...and written on the wall in blood were the words ‘humans can lick too,’” said Stan. “And she realized that her dog was dead, and her hand had been licked by a creepy stranger!” He wiggled his fingers ominously as the campfire cast flickering shadows on the surrounding trees.

“Stan- _ ley! _ ” Ford shuddered. “That’s disgusting!”

“Alright,” said Grunkle Mason. “Stan, thank you for your… disturbing story. Now, I think it’s time for bed.”

“Aw!” Stan whined. “Don’t you wanna hear my story about the haunted mural that eats people?” 

“No,” said Ford and Grunkle Mason together.

“Maybe tomorrow night,” said Dan generously. “We’ve gotta get up bright and early tomorrow morning, right, Mr. Pines?”

“ _ I’ve _ gotta get up bright and early,” Grunkle Mason corrected. “ _ You _ three are gonna stay right here until I get back, right?”

“Boo,” said Stan. “Where are you going, anyway?”

“Yeah, why can’t we come?” said Ford.

“Doesn’t matter. And because I said so,” said Grunkle Mason. “Now get into your tent, kids.”

“Well,  _ that’s _ a dissatisfying answer,” Ford grumbled as he and Stan unzipped their tent and crawled in.

 

“Stanford!”

“Mmmmm.” Ford opened his eyes, but in the darkness of the woods he might as well have kept them closed.

“Stanford, wake up! I heard something.” In the tiny one-person tent, his brother’s face was so close to his that Ford could feel his breath on his ear.

“Stanley.” Ford rubbed his eyes and groaned. “It was probably just Shanklin.”

“Shanklin’s right here,” Stan whispered. Ford heard the opossum hiss. “He heard it too. There’s something outside, Ford. Seriously.”

“Stanley, you just freaked yourself out with your scary story. Go back to sleep.” Ford curled back into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes.

“Ford, I’m serious!”

“Stan, I promise there’s nothing--” Ford’s words were interrupted by a loud thump coming from right outside the tent. There was a pause, followed by another thump.

“I told you,” Stan whispered, almost too quietly to hear.

“Shh,” said Ford. The pair of twins lay there stock-still as they listened to the sound of something huge moving around their campground, occasionally making a low groaning sound. After what felt like forever, the creature seemed to retreat back into the woods.

“What. Was. That,” Stan finally said. Ford thought for a minute before answering.

“I think it was a bear,” he finally whispered back. “It’s gone now. Go back to sleep.”

“I’m never sleeping again in my life.” Ford heard rustling from the corner of the tent as Stan dug through his belongings, finally lying back down in his sleeping bag. “Ford? Wanna listen to some music?”

Ford finally thought to do a quick assessment of his body. His heart was racing, and his breath was coming in shallow gasps. Every muscle in his body was tensed up, ready to run.

“Okay,” he said, and he felt Stan place an earbud into his hand, keeping the other one for himself. He heard the play button click, and the fear in his mind was drowned out by the sound of catchy pop music as he placed the bud into his ear.


	12. Stan Vs Toxic Masculinity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford makes an exciting discovery. Stan starts to worry that he isn't manly enough.

Stan woke up to the sun shining through the walls of the tent, and the surprisingly loud sound of birds chirping. He pulled the silent earbud out of his ear and glanced at the empty sleeping bag next to him. Ford must have gotten up early to check out some anomalies near the campsite. His brother had noticed a batch of oddly-shaped mushrooms while they were gathering firewood, and he had probably gone back this morning to draw some more pictures of them.

Stan stopped by the mushroom site when he had finished getting dressed, but there was no sign of Ford. When he got back to the campsite, Dan had gotten up and was starting a fire in the firepit.

“Sleep well, little man?” asked Dan as he flicked two pieces of rock together to make a spark.

“Not really, there was…” Stan gaped at the small flame that started crackling on a dry leaf, growing into a real fire as it grabbed onto a twig. “...How did you do that?”

“Flint and steel. But what were you saying? Did something happen?” The older boy straightened up, looking concerned.

“Oh, it’s just… Ford and I thought we heard something outside…” Stan looked at the ground outside his tent. “A-ha!” He pointed at several sets of tracks in the dirt. “Look!”

Dan crouched down to get a closer look. He let out a low whistle.

“Bears,” he said. “Grizzlies. And it looks like more than one.”

“But I thought Grunkle Mason said there weren’t any grizzly bears in Oregon!” 

“Grizzlies are native to here, but the last one hasn’t been seen around here since the 1930s. There’s been some evidence that they could be still around, though. And these tracks are way too large to belong to a black bear.” Dan straightened up and looked around. “Where’s your brother?”

“I haven’t seen him today.” Stan’s mind cut to an image of Stanford being devoured by bears. “Oh, no. This is not happening again.” He tore open the zipper of their tent and looked into the corner where Ford had stored his backpack the night before; it was gone. He dug into his own backpack for his radio.

“8-Ball to Sixer, do you copy?” Stan held his breath until he heard his brother’s voice on the other end.

“Sixer to 8-Ball. Copy. What’s up?”

“What’s  _ UP?! _  " Stan screeched. “Stanford, where the poop are you?”

“Oh yeah, about that. I’m, uh… following Grunkle Mason.”

“You’re  _ what?? _ ....  _ Without me? _ ” 

“Sorry! I just know you get grumpy when I wake you up too early. Also… I was kinda worried this whole thing would freak you out.”

“ _ Freak  _ me  _ out? _ What’s that supposed to mean, bub? Ain’t nothin’ freaks  _ me _ out!”

“I know, I know. It’s just…. I know how you’re scared of heights…. and how you fainted the first time Candy’s chicken house transformed…”

“ _ Who told you? _ I mean,  _ no I didn’t! _ ”

“It’s just, I didn’t know what was gonna happen today! I wanted to be ready for anything!”

“What, so I’m a burden on you?”

“No!” Ford’s voice got quieter. “I’m sorry, Stan. Please don’t be mad. I really don’t want us to fight again.”

“Me neither. I’m sorry too.” Stan sighed, pressing the palm of his hand into his forehead. “So, what’s Grunkle Mason doing?”

“He’s walking down into the valley. I’m watching him with my binoculars. Should probably go catch up with him. I’ll get back to you when I have the chance, okay?”

“Okay,” said Stan. “Over and out.” He clipped his radio onto his belt. “Oh wait!” He slapped his forehead and picked up the radio again. “Watch out for bears, Ford!”

“Bears?”

“Grizzly bears! There were a couple of them in the campsite last night! We found their footprints.”

“Really?” Ford paused. “Fascinating.”

“Yeah, I thought you might like that.” said Stan. “Okay, goodbye for real!”

 

“Everything okay?” asked Dan, who was boiling water for oatmeal at the fire. Stan slumped down onto the log beside him.

“Yeah. Ford’s with Grunkle Mason.” Stan chewed on his thumbnail. “Dan, you’re pretty manly, right?”

“Well, I mean.” Dan poured dried oats into the pot of boiling water. “I guess so.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Stan groaned, covering his face in his hands. “You’re so manly, you don’t even have to say you’re manly. I’m a fraud! Tell me the truth, do people think I’m a wimp?”

“Who cares what people think?”

“So they do!”

“Well, I mean…” Dan scratched his head. “You’re not  _ that _ much of a wimp. You’re just kinda sensitive, is all.”

“I knew it! But it’s not my fault. Nobody ever taught me how to be a boy! I had to figure it out on my own!”

“Didn’t you have a dad? And an older brother?”

“Yeah, but…. I never…. forget I said that. I always thought I was the one who protected Ford, but now I'm not so sure. And Ford at least has his science and math and all the other things he's good at. What do I even have? Toughness? I mean, look at my arm!” He attempted to flex his noodly appendage.

“You’re just a kid,” said Dan. “I’m sure you’ll fill out when you hit puberty.”

“But what if I don’t?” Stan whined. “Or worse, what if I  _ do? _ I’ll just be a big muscular guy who’s scared of heights and loves girly pop music and cries during movies!” He clutched his face in horror. “I’ll be a freak!”

“Calm down, buddy.” Dan patted Stan’s shoulder reassuringly. “There are lots of dudes who are like that.”

“Yeah, but you know who else is like that? Girls!”

“I… that doesn’t... “ Dan pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned. “Listen, kid. You’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself. Lots of people act in a lot of different ways, no matter what their gender is.”

“Oh yeah?” Stan huffed and crossed his arms. “Name one.”

“I… what? That’s not… I mean, my mom, for starters. And Grenda is great at punching things.”

“Well, yeah. It’s okay for  _ girls _ to be like  _ boys….  _ I mean, kinda. But a boy can’t act like a  _ girl _ . Everybody knows that.”

“Really? Says who?”

“Well, let’s see.” Stan started counting on his fingers. “My dad, everyone in school, and everybody else who’s ever lived.”

Dan rolled his eyes. “Well, who are you gonna believe,  _ everybody who’s ever lived _ , or me?” He spooned some oatmeal into a bowl and handed it to Stan before starting on his own bowl. “Do you want sugar?” he asked through a mouthful of food.

Stan furrowed his brow as he watched Dan shovel the steaming-hot oatmeal into his mouth. 

“Nah, I’m good.” He peered into his own oatmeal and lifted a spoonful to his mouth. It was so hot he almost spit it out, but he managed to mush it around his mouth a little bit before swallowing. The oatmeal had no discernible flavor, which made it feel like he was eating cement.

“You okay there, bud?” Dan asked as he watched the younger boy resolutely choke down his breakfast. 

“Fine,” he said in a strangled voice. “I think I’m just… not that hungry?” He set down his bowl with a sigh.

 

Every few minutes or so, Ford saw Grunkle Mason pull a compass out of his pocket and look at it for a moment before continuing further into the valley. Ford pulled out his own compass, and was surprised to see that it was no longer pointing North. By his own estimation based on his placements of the landmarks that were still visible to him, his compass was now pointing East; the direction where they were currently walking. As he watched, Grunkle Mason pulled out his compass one last time and kept his eye on it as he walked several steps forward. Apparently satisfied, he put the compass back into his pocket and took off his backpack. 

Grunkle Mason unzipped his backpack and reached his arm deep inside. When it came out, his hand was gripping a leather journal that looked remarkably like the one Ford had hidden away in his own backpack. Ford gaped as Grunkle Mason paged through the journal, finally seeming to find the page he was looking for. Using the journal as reference, the older man felt around on the ground as if he were looking for something. He finally seemed to press a button that slid back a hatch of some kind, opening up a square-shaped hole in the ground.

“Yesss!” Ford heard Grunkle Mason exclaim. He did a little dance of victory, then stopped and glanced around. Ford held his breath in his place where he was crouched, hoping that he was hidden by the long grass of the valley. Seemingly satisfied that he was alone, Grunkle Mason packed the journal back into his backpack, slung it onto his back, and disappeared into the hole.

Ford waited a moment. It was a pretty small hole, right? He was sure that Grunkle Mason would come back out soon. Ford waited some more, the rising sun slowly heating up and beating down on his head. He felt a drop of sweat creep down the back of his neck into his jacket. Unlike Stanley, Ford could be very patient. He crouched stock-still for ten entire minutes, his eyes not wavering from the hole where his great-uncle had disappeared.

Finally, Ford’s curiosity got the better of him. He stood up stiffly from his crouch and stretched by touching his toes a few times. As he approached the place where Grunkle Mason had disappeared, Ford kept an eye on his compass to see if something would happen. As he took one more step, the needle of his compass suddenly went haywire, spinning around wildly. When he got to the hole in the ground, Ford could see why.

There was something made of metal under the ground. Something huge and hollow, and the hole was a door that led into it. Ford looked around at the area of the ground where he stood, trying to discern where the metal object ended and the real ground began. Then he looked back at the cracked cliffs on the other side of the valley. They looked like a huge object had smashed between them, leaving an imprint of its shape behind before scooping out the shape of the valley and burying itself under the ground.

The shape of a saucer.

Ford felt his heart stop beating for a moment. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/47753141951/in/dateposted-public/)

Inside the hole was a ladder. Ford carefully stepped onto it, feeling from rung to rung as he climbed further down. He couldn’t tell how far down it went; there was no light source other than the square of sky that was visible through the door. The square got smaller and smaller as Ford descended, until it was so small he could block it with his thumb. He found himself thinking, with a pang of guilt, that it was probably good that Stan wasn’t here.

Ford felt his frantically beating heart begin to slow down as he rhythmically climbed from rung to rung. Left foot, left hand, right foot, right hand. Deeper and deeper into the ground. The air grew cooler, drying the sweat on his face. He shivered. It was so dark, he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his eyes. The square of sky had long since disappeared.

He started to notice a tint of blue around him. It was so subtle, and he had been in the darkness for so long, that he thought he was imagining it at first. But as he continued to climb, the blue light got brighter, until he could see his own hands again. Finally he could even see its source: far below him, there was a room with blue lights embedded in the walls. Ford felt like a deep-sea diver, approaching the bioluminescent organisms in the inhospitable basement of the ocean.

And then he was at the bottom. Ford hopped off the ladder and onto the metal floor. He felt his body; yes, he was alive. He lightly slapped his own face; he was awake. This was real. He must have been hundreds of feet below the ground. Definitely further down than the height of the Washington Monument. He shuddered at the thought that such a huge object was buried under the town without anybody knowing about it, for so long that the town itself had actually been built over it. He pushed this thought aside for later consideration. His priority was to find Grunkle Mason, and figure out what he was up to.

There were two hallways leading out of the room. Ford stopped for a minute, trying to figure out which direction he should go. Ford had a very good sense of hearing; Ma had told him that it was rude to cover your ears in public, especially when someone was trying to talk to you, but people talking at a normal volume sometimes sounded to Ford like they were screaming. Not to mention that sometimes people  _ were  _ screaming, but he still wasn’t supposed to cover his ears. It made things very difficult most of the time. Baseball games were a nightmare. Fire drills in school were torturous.

Listening at the fork in the path, Ford didn’t hear anything particularly. However, his left ear was telling him that there was  _ something _ to hear down the left-hand hallway. It was so faint that it almost wasn’t there, just like the blue light had been, but it was good enough for Ford. He set off down the hall.

 

“Wow,” said Stan, resting his chin in his hands as he watched Dan carefully smooth out a piece of wood with his pocket knife. The block of wood he was holding was starting to slowly take on the shape of a frog. “You made arts and crafts manly.”

“You keep using that word,” said Dan, blowing the wood shavings off of his frog and turning it around in his hand. “I have to admit that at this point I’m not really sure what it means anymore.”

“It’s just like… you know,” said Stan, gesturing vaguely in the air. “There’s that element of danger, you know? That’s what makes something manly.”

“What about resin crafts?” said Dan. “That’s pretty dangerous. You could breathe in toxic fumes.”

“That’s different.”

“Um, okay…” Dan thought for a minute. “What about playing guitar?”

“Definitely manly,” said Stan. “You can get callouses.”

“Knitting? You could get stabbed with a knitting needle.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Stan. “Knitting is girly.”

Dan burst out laughing. “Who came up with all this? It’s all completely random.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Stan, crossing his arms. “You’re manly without even trying. Some of us have to work a little harder.”

“But that’s what I’m trying to say!” Dan groaned. “You shouldn’t  _ have _ to work hard at it. The world is hard enough as it is.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” said Stan, feeling tears start to prickle in his eyes. “You don’t have anything to prove, so you can do whatever you want! Some of us aren’t so lucky. This is high-stakes for me, okay? This is my life on the line! If I can't learn how to be a boy, that means I'll have to… to….” _ go back to being a girl,  _ was his horrified thought. He trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

“Okay, okay.” Dan patted Stan’s shoulder. “I don't really know what you're talking about, but I’m sorry. I didn't realize this was so important to you. Do... you want me to teach you how to whittle?”

“Yes!” shouted Stan. “That’s exactly what I want!”

 

Something was emitting an electrical buzzing sound. That was the best that Ford could figure out as he continued down the hallway and the sound got closer and closer. Not one to make the same mistake twice (most of the time), Ford had pulled out his field notebook and was charting a map of the area as he explored. His compass was useless inside such a large chunk of metal, but he was doing what he could. He’d been given several chances to branch off the main hallway in different directions, but something told him to continue on the path he was on. Of course, he had taken note of every landmark he had encountered that could be used to orient himself later.

The first thing looked like some kind of map posted on the wall, which was labeled with different colors and symbols. The writing on it wasn’t in a language recognizable to Ford, but he’d copied it down the best that he could anyway. There had been a few smaller signs since then that appeared to be written in the same alphabet, all of which Ford had carefully written down. 

One of the signs was actually marking what looked like a rounded metal door. Ford hunted around for something that could resemble a doorknob, finally pressing a tile near the floor that triggered a mechanism that slid the door open. On the other side was some kind of storage closet containing objects that were probably used for cleaning or fixing things, although Ford didn’t really know for sure. He took a few photographs and made a note on his map before moving on.

There were also some biological specimens that had captured Ford’s attention. A blue-green slime growing in various nooks and crannies looked to be some type of moss that was managing to feed on the metal itself, and a small skeleton he’d found in a corner was the size of a rat, but had twice the usual number of legs, and eye sockets big enough for golf balls.

As he sketched a picture of the small dead animal, Ford found himself grinning from ear to ear. He was looking at a life form that had quite possibly been born in a different solar system, on a planet that scientists might not have even discovered or named. And yet, he felt that he and this creature were alike in some deep, fundamental way. 

Here was a mammalian species with eight limbs and globe-like eyes on the top of its head, looking to have been capable of looking in front, above, and behind itself with ease. To some people, maybe this would be considered a monster, but Ford saw a kind of poetry in its rat-like soul. It may be strange by human standards, yes, but by its own standards, every part was exactly and entirely what was necessary to meet its needs. Here was a creature that was fearfully and wonderfully made, for nobody but itself. Just like him.

Ford had spent his entire life being told that he was a freak; that something was wrong with him; that being different was a flaw that he needed to overcome. But maybe he didn’t have to think about himself that way. In fact, maybe everybody else was wrong. It was probably absurd to think that Ford’s six fingers gave him special powers, or that he thought and behaved differently from other people because he was the next stage of human evolution, but maybe those things weren’t necessarily  _ bad, _ either. Maybe they were just… okay.

Ford was pulled from his thoughts by a crashing sound, followed by somebody swearing relatively nearby. He hopped up and hurried down the hallway towards the sound, stowing his pencil on his ear.

 

“I’m gonna say we call it quits for today,” said Dan, wrapping a Band-Aid around one of Stan’s fingers. “I wanna save some of these in case there’s an emergency.”

“Aw,” said Stan, wiggling his bandaged fingers and looking down at his block of wood that vaguely resembled a rabbit. “But I’m not done yet! This thing looks horrible.” 

“What? It looks fine,” said Dan. “Everyone struggles a little bit when they’re trying something new. Hey, how about we go down to the lake and try to catch something? I'm pretty sure there's nothing manlier than providing food for your family.”

“Are you kidding?” Stan hopped up. “I’m pretty much a fishing expert, you know. I grew up on the ocean. Those fish aren’t gonna know what hit ‘em!”

“You talk a big game, little dude.” Dan chuckled and grabbed his water bottle. “Come on then.”

“Don’t we need fishing poles?” asked Stan. “And… bait?”

“Not the way I do it. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

The lake was as still as a sheet of glass, reflecting the mountains and trees that surrounded it on all sides. Stan watched curiously as the older boy peered into the water, his hands lifted slightly in preparation. In the blink of an eye, his hand shot into the water and he pulled out a large flopping fish. He grabbed a fist-sized rock and efficiently smashed the fish’s skull, laying the now-dead fish on the ground beside him.

Stan’s experience of catching and releasing small fish off the pier in Jersey had not prepared him for this. His vision swam in front of him, and for a moment he thought he was going to faint again. He gazed at the older boy’s hands; they were capable of such incredible feats of creation and destruction. The fish had been minding its own business ten seconds ago, and now it was dead.

“Uh, how old were you when you learned how to do this?” asked Stan.

“Hmm.” Dan squinted into the distance with his hand on his chin, looking like he was posing for a paper towel ad. Actually, looking like he was posing for a paper towel ad was kind of Dan’s entire thing. “Probably about your age, maybe a little younger. Why?”

“No reason.” Stan had been hoping that he could back out of this with a shred of dignity by claiming that he was too young for it, but it seemed like he was already falling behind compared to Dan. What had he been doing with his life? Wasting his time watching TV and playing on the swing set while Dan had been making fire by smashing rocks together, carving things with sharp objects, and killing animals with his bare hands.

“Want to try?” said Dan. He smiled reassuringly at Stan, who was no longer sure that he  _ did _ want to try. But if he didn’t learn to do this now, he would probably never catch up.

“Uh, yeah.” He tried to imitate the way Dan knelt over the water, holding his hands over the surface. Seeing a dark shape move under his hands, Stan made a grab for it, but only managed to splash water all over himself.

“Shut up,” he told Shanklin, who seemed to be enjoying the show from a safe distance. He tried a few more times to grab a fish out of the water, but the closest he got to success was when a big walleye managed to slice his palm with its spiny dorsal fin. Maybe it was for the best, anyway; he was growing increasingly doubtful of his ability to actually kill a fish with a rock, even if he did manage to catch one.

“Maybe we should go back to camp,” said Dan as he wrapped a piece of gauze around Stan's hand. “I don't know what Mr. Pines is gonna think I've been doing to you today.”

“No,” Stan sighed. “You can keep fishing. I'll just be over here.” He slumped down on the ground next to Shanklin.

“If you're sure,” said Dan. He reached back into the water and grabbed another fish. Stan sighed and reached into his pocket for the Walkman, sticking the buds into his ears and hitting the play button. 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/47753139451/in/dateposted-public/)


	13. Weird Kids United

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filbrick is mean in a flashback, and Ford and Dipper have a conversation in the UFO.
> 
> I made it through 12 chapters with no swear words, but Filbrick had to go and break my streak. Teen and Up rating it is! Also a content warning for ableism in this chapter. There's also misgendering in the flashback, because Stan and Ford hadn't transitioned yet.
> 
> Sorry this chapter took a bit longer, and that it's shorter than normal. It was really tough to write from Dipper's perspective for some reason. I hope you enjoy it!

“I just don’t like the idea of some quack doctor telling me what’s wrong with my own kid!”

“We’ve always known she wasn’t like the other kids, Filbrick. Now we just know _why_. And maybe now we can figure out how to help her.”

“We don’t need to help her. _She_ knows what she needs to do. I’ve told her a thousand times. Stop acting like such a little weirdo. Look at people when they’re talking to you. Stop talking about UFOs every five goddamned minutes.”

Stan and Ford froze outside the closed door of their dad’s office, glancing at each other silently in the darkened hallway between the living room and their bedroom.

“And speaking of which, don’t act like I don’t know where those books are coming from. I know _I_ sure as hell haven’t been buying them.”

Ford subconsciously clutched his book closer to his chest. He felt Stan’s fingers slip into his free palm. A few weeks ago, their parents and teachers had made some behind-the-scenes agreement to take Ford to a place that felt like a doctor’s office, with a waiting room and everything. But when Ma took him inside, instead of making him sit on a table and touching him and poking him with needles, they had sat him down in a quiet room and let him play with blocks and showed him flashcards with pictures of faces on them and asked him what the faces meant.

Then a series of people had come in, one at a time, and asked him odd questions about himself and his family, and everyone had been very nice to him. But a while later, the Pines family had gotten a very big envelope in the mail which had made the adults very upset. When Stan snuck it out of their parents’ room to look at it, the twins saw that the people who had been acting very nice to Ford had actually been writing all sorts of judgemental things about him.

“ _Impairment/Symptom: Social skills deficit. Patient struggles forming and maintaining friendships. Frequently derails conversation to talk about narrow interests. Fails to comprehend nonverbal communication._ ” “ _Behavior concerns: Avoids eye contact. Rigid body language. Repetitive physical movements.” “Diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder.”_ All of this seemed extremely unfair. Maybe if Ford had known that they had been testing him, he would have tried harder to do a good job. They had tricked him into thinking that the questions and the flashcards were the test, when the real test was what he’d been doing while they distracted him with questions and flashcards.

The worst part was that nobody directly talked to the twins about this. Instead, a dark cloud seemed to descend on the Pines family. Family dinners were silent and tense: Filbrick glaring at Ford, like it was his fault. Caryn glaring at Filbrick. Shermie glaring at both of them. The twins eating their food politely and efficiently, clearing the table afterwards and slinking into their room. Even Stan knew better than to play with his food or try to crack jokes.

“What, I can’t support my child’s interests now? You don’t seem to have a problem paying for Shermie’s boxing lessons.”

“Yeah, because boxing lessons are _normal!_ Listen, the kid likes math. Get her math books if you wanna be ‘supportive.’ Ain’t nobody made friends or money off of supernatural alien bullshit.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize this conversation was about money. I thought it was about our child, who is eight years old and _clearly unhappy!_ ”

“It’s _always_ about money, Caryn! Maybe you’ll understand that in 20 years, when the kid’s grown into a full-blown drain on society. I’ve already given up on the other one, but this one is _smart_. And I’m not gonna let you ruin ‘em both with your coddling and constant excuses.”

“Don’t you speak about my children that way! Don’t you _dare!_ ”

Stan and Ford both jumped as the office door burst open, slamming into the opposite wall as their father stormed out. He stopped for a minute to regard the twins silently.

“Creepy kids,” he muttered under his breath. He pushed past them and stomped downstairs, slamming the front door closed behind him.

 

There was something immensely fascinating about walking into a room full of technology that was far more advanced than anything humans had created during their approximately 200,000 years on Earth, and yet so old that it was starting to be re-claimed by the Earth itself. Curved and elegantly designed machines were hidden under layers of grime, and a few bats flapped past Ford’s head and disappeared into an air vent in the corner. On the far end of the room, Grunkle Mason was crouched with his back to the doorway, struggling to disassemble part of a machine with a large wrench that didn’t quite seem up to the task. Grunkle Mason was swearing under his breath, the same way Pa did when he was fixing his car or reading Stan’s report card.

Ford knew better than to interrupt an adult when they were already in a bad mood, if he didn’t have anything “helpful to contribute” (which he usually didn’t, because “being a smartypants” was not considered helpful). However, looking at the symbols that he saw in a few different places on the machinery, he realized that he might possibly have a way to be helpful.

Ford walked back out into the hallway and flipped through his notebook until he found the map he’d been drawing of the spaceship’s interior. As he suspected, the symbols on the machinery he’d just seen matched the ones he’d seen outside the supply closet.

Upon returning to the closet, Ford made a beeline for what he had now concluded to be a toolbox. He lifted the heavy metal box with two hands and carefully lugged it back to the engine room.

 

This was just not working.

Dipper swore under his breath again, although he really shouldn’t have been surprised. Of _course_ something constructed with alien technology would need to be disassembled with the same technology. But he’d been hoping that he could somehow make it work anyway, just through sheer tenacity. _What an idiot._

“Grunkle Mason?”

Dipper jumped and dropped his wrench, which made a loud crash that echoed throughout the room. The crash was followed by another, significantly louder crash from behind him. He whipped around to see little Stanford with his hands covering his ears. A toolbox lay on its side at his feet, and tools were strewn across the floor.

“Ford! What are you _doing_ here?” Dipper rushed over to the boy and gripped his shoulders. “I told you to stay back at the campground with the others! What… what were you _thinking?_ You could have gotten seriously hurt down here!” _And Mabel would have killed me._

Ford remained stock-still, his hands still covering his ears and his eyes squeezed shut.

“Ford! Are you listening to me? Say something!” Dipper squeezed his shoulders tighter, fighting the urge to shake him.

“Ow,” said Ford quietly. Dipper quickly let go of his shoulders and took a step back.

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet awkwardly. “It’s just… you really scared me, bud. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

“But you told Grauntie Mabel that you weren’t doing anything dangerous,” said Ford, slowly lowering his hands.

 _Nuts._ _Smart kid._

“Alright, you got me. Listen, I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me. Got it?” Ford nodded. “Great.” Dipper looked at the mess at Ford’s feet. “So, uh… what do you have there?”

“You looked like you were having trouble disassembling the hyperdrive, so I brought you some tools that were designed to work on it.”

“Oh.” Dipper looked in amazement of the array of alien tools spread out on the floor. “Uh, good idea. How did you know this was the hyperdrive, though?”

“I read a lot of science fiction books,” said Ford simply.

“My man!” Dipper grinned and moved to clap Ford on the back, but backtracked when Ford jumped back with a look of alarm, and gave him a thumbs-up instead. “So, uh, let’s take a look at these tools you’ve got.”

“Why are you taking the hyperdrive out of the ship?” asked Ford. Dipper was having a lot of trouble reading this kid. He didn’t seem upset or accusatory--just genuinely curious, like he was trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle. But the puzzle was real life, and Dipper didn’t particularly want Ford to put all the pieces together.

“Well, what does a hyperdrive usually do?” he said, hoping to dodge the question.

“Makes the ship go really fast.”

“You got it! Now, let’s take a look at-”

“By opening a portal to a parallel dimension where the laws of physics don’t apply, allowing the vehicle to achieve faster-than-light travel.”

“Y...yeah…”

“You don’t want to tell me what you’re using it for!” said Ford in surprise, snapping his fingers.

“Um…”

“That’s okay, Grunkle Mason.” Ford squatted down to look at the hyperdrive, looking pleased with himself for solving the mystery. “You don’t have to tell me. I’ll just figure it out on my own.”

“Yeah,” said Dipper. “I really think you will, actually. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Are you afraid of me, Grunkle Mason?” asked the young boy, assessing the alien technology like a plumber assessing a clogged drain.

“Afraid of you? That’s not what I meant. I meant that… I don’t think I can keep any secrets from you, and that worries me. Why? Should I be afraid of you?” Dipper joked. “Is there a death ray hidden in that jacket?”

“No,” said Ford, turning to look at Dipper with a blank expression. “But people think I’m creepy sometimes. One time I brought a shrunken head in to class for show and tell, and everybody threw things at me and said that I was a disgusting freak."

"That's horrible," said Dipper. "Why would they do that?"

"I don't know! I wasn't trying to be disgusting! I actually thought they would think it was interesting. But I can never figure out what people want from me. When I try to guess, I always get it wrong. I think it’s because I have autism.”

“Oh,” said Dipper. “I’m… sorry to hear that.” He strongly suspected that this was not the right thing to say.

“It’s okay.” Ford shrugged, walking back to the pile of tools and looking through them carefully. “As long as I’m not a drain on society.”

“A… what?” Dipper paused for a minute to try to process what Ford had just said. Ford, not seeming to feel as if he’d said anything particularly unusual, continued to look through the tools and put the ones that seemed the most relevant into his jacket pockets. “Did you just say that being autistic is only okay if you’re not a drain on society? Who told you that?”

“My dad,” said Ford. “Well, he didn’t _tell_ me that. He didn’t tell me anything. I had to figure it out on my own. But it’s okay! I’m not a drain on society. I’m good at math.” He looked up to grin at Dipper, who suddenly had a sick feeling in his stomach.

“Ford,” he said slowly. “Being good at math is not what makes you a worthwhile human being.”

“Oh,” said Ford. He blushed and started to unconsciously wring his hands together. “I know that. I mean, I know that’s true for _other_ people.”

“How is it true for other people and not for you?”

“I don’t know!” Ford cried out in distress over his worldview suddenly being called into question. “It just is!”

“Okay,” said Dipper, raising his hands appeasingly. “I’m just trying to understand.” He thought for a moment. “What do you think Stan would say about you if you weren’t good at math?”

“That I’m the smartest person who ever lived? And really good at art, and ambidextrous, and one time I punched a pterodactyl in the face, and I’m his favorite person, and he loves me?” Ford’s thoughtful look changed to a look of realization. “Oh!”

Dipper smiled. “Yeah? Did ya realize something?”

“Yeah,” said Ford, suddenly frowning. “I think so.”

“Something…. good?”

“No,” said Ford. He didn’t seem like he was planning to elaborate, so Dipper left it alone.

Sitting down cross-legged on the rusted metal floor next to the hyperdrive, Ford pulled a couple tools out of his pockets and got to work efficiently matching them up to different parts of the machine. Dipper leaned against a different machine and watched in fascination as the young boy fiddled around experimentally with the alien technology.

“Ah…” Dipper cleared his throat. “For what it’s worth, people gave me a hard time, too. As a kid.”

“Really?” Ford looked up from the hyperdrive. “Why?”

“Well, actually, I was a lot like you. I didn’t have anything in common with a lot of the other kids, and I was obsessed with stuff like UFOs and monsters. Also… everyone made fun of my birthmark.”

“I didn’t know you had a birthmark.”

“Yeah, I usually keep it hidden. I know I’m an old guy, but I guess part of me is still worried about what other people will think.” He inhaled sharply and took his hat off, pushing his bangs back to reveal the bright pink birthmark on his forehead.

Ford gasped. “Wow, cool!”

“Cool?”

“Yeah, it looks just like the Big Dipper! Is that why Grauntie Mabel calls you Dipper?”

Dipper nodded as he put the baseball cap back on. “Yeah. I guess it’s just a tiny way for me to take away some of its power. If I claim it for myself, then nobody can use it against me, or something like that.”

Ford nodded. “I understand.” He looked down at his hand thoughtfully. “People call me a freak, or a mutant, or dare each other to touch me, like having extra fingers is contagious. Or like I’m dirty. But… when I’m by myself, or with Stan… I forget that having six fingers isn’t normal. Or Stan will call me Sixer, and the way he says it makes me feel proud to have six fingers, like I’m special. Maybe that’s weird.”

“No! No. Listen to me.” Dipper knelt down to be eye-level with Ford. “Don’t be like me, okay? Don’t ever feel like you have to hide, or be ashamed. I did that for so long, I don’t even know how to stop at this point. Everything about you… is fine. I promise.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Also… you can call me Dipper if you want.”

“Okay, Grunkle Dipper.”

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/168104234@N04/47997867346/in/dateposted-public/)

 

“Sha-bam,” said Ford as he removed the hyperdrive from its resting place and carefully set it on the floor with a muffled _thump._

“Holy cow,” said Dipper, glancing at his watch. “You did that in… I wanna say 10 minutes?” The embarrassment he felt at being so easily one-upped by a ten-year-old was overshadowed by how impressed he was.

“Fiddleford could have done it in five,” was Ford’s sheepish reply.

“Listen,” said Dipper. “You’re a smart kid, you know that? And there are things that I really can’t tell you right now. But I think you’re ready for me to tell you about _something_.” He reached into his backpack to pull something out.

“Is it the journal?” asked Ford abruptly.

Dipper gaped at Ford in surprise. “How did you know about that?”

“Oh! Umm…” Ford was wringing his hands again, and seemed to be wrestling with something internally. Finally he unzipped his own backpack, pulling out a very familiar-looking journal and reluctantly handing it to Dipper.

“Oh my God,” said Dipper as he took it in his hand. “There’s another one. That explains so much.” He opened up the bulky leather volume and flipped through it, stopping at the page of blueprints that completed the pieces of the puzzle in his mind. He looked up at Ford, who seemed to be watching his every move, shoulders stiffened, with his hands behind his back. “Where did you find this?”

“In the basement,” said Ford. “In a box. You’re not… gonna take it away, are you?”

“Well…” Taking it away was exactly what Dipper had been planning to do, but upon reflection, he realized that Ford might not actually be happy about that. He continued to eye the blueprints. “I think I’ll need to borrow it, at least long enough to make copies.”

“Then you’ll give it back?” Ford smiled and his shoulders relaxed a bit.

“Yes.” He pulled his own journal out of his backpack. “Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag. I’m guessing you were hoping to borrow this?” Ford stood up straighter and grinned excitedly.

“Well, you can’t.” Ford immediately looked crushed. “You can’t yet, I mean!” Dipper quickly clarified. “I still need to use it for something, but then I can lend it to you.” Ford perked up again. Jeez, he really needed to work on how he talked to children. They had so many… _feelings._

“But, hey.” Dipper gestured at the hyperdrive. “Thanks for this. I honestly couldn’t have done it without you, as embarrassing as that is to admit. And I’ll tell you why I needed it… soon. I promise. Until then,” he held up the journal “I’ve been thinking of taking up monster-hunting again. And I want you to be my assistant.”

Ford’s face lit up like the sun.


End file.
